,t 


GIFT  OF 


Felix  Flflgel 


EWALD  FLflGEL, 
1897" 

PALO  ALTO.CAL 


?EL1X 


NOCTES  AMBROSIANJ. 


BY 


CHRISTOPHER   NORTH. 

(PROF.  JOHN  WILSON). 


SELECTED,   EDITED  AND  ARRANGED  ST 

JOHN   SKELTON, 

ADVOCA1E. 


NEW  YORK: 
JOHN    B.    ALDEN,    PUBLISHER, 

1 8  VESEY  STREET. 


No 
IQ7 


XPH  A'EN  2YMIIOZIQ  KYAIKflN  HEPINISSOMENAQN 
HAEA  K12TIAAONTA  KA6HMENON  OINOIIOTAZEIN. 

PHOC.  op.  Ath. 

[This  is  a  distich  by  wise  old  Phocy tides, 

An  ancient  who  wrote  crabbed  Greek  in  no  silly  days  ; 

Meaning,  "  'Tis  RIGHT  FOB  GOOD  WINE-BIBBING  PEOPLE, 

NOT  TO   LET  THE   JUG    PACE    ROUND  THE  BOARD  LIKE  A  CRIPPLE  ; 
BUT  GAILY  TO  CHAT  WHILE   DISCUSSING  THEIR  TIPPLE." 

An  excellent  rule  of  the  hearty  old  cock'tis— 
And  a  very  nt  motto  to  put  to  our  Noctes.] 

C.  N.  ap.  Amhr 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


CHRISTOPHER  NORTH. 
THE  ETTRICK  SHEPHERD. 
TIMOTHY  TICKLER. 
THE  ENGLISH  OPIUM-EATER. 
COLONEL  CYRIL  THORNTON. 
MULLION,  A  Gentleman  from  the  West. 
BULLER,  An  Englishman. 
THE  REGISTRAR. 
AMBROSE,  Mine  Host. 

NATHAN  GURNEY,  the  Reporter  for  the  "  Noctet" 
MRS.  GENTLE,  a  Widow. 
Miss  GENTLE. 

BRONTE,  a  veteran  Newfoundlander. 
O' BRONTE,  a  young  Newfoundlander. 
A  Cat,  a  Parrot,  a  Starling,  a  Raven,  tyc. 
The  Jug. 

TAPPYTOORIE,   PICARDY,  SIR   DAVID  GAM,  KING  PEPIH, 
and  others,  Servants  to  AMBROSE. 


The  Scenes  are  laid  at  Ambrose's  Tavern  Tn  Edinburgh  ; 
Buchanan  Lodge,  on  the  Firth  of  Forth ;  St.  Mary's  Loch ; 
the  Ettrick  Forest,  and  elsewhere. 


THE  CONTENTS. 


THE  INTRODUCTION,  ».  ix 

I. 

In  which  Christopher  North,  Timothy  Tickler,  and  the  Etlnck 

Shepherd  are  introduced  to  the  reader,      ...          1 

II. 

In  which  Tickler  narrates  his  experiences  at  Dalnacardoch,  .         15 

III. 
In  the  Blue  Parlor,  ...  .30 

IV. 

In  which  the  Shepherd  usurps  the  Editorial  chair,      .          .        44 

V. 

In  which  the  Shepherd  routs  Mullion,  ...        67 

VI. 

In  which  the  Shepherd  assists  at  an  Incremation,       .  .         69 

VIL 

At  the  Lodge  in  Summer,  ....  86 


vi  T?te  Contents. 

vm. 

PAGE. 

In  which  the  Shepherd  is  hanged  and  beheaded,          .  .         99 

IX. 

'      In  the  Paper  Parlor,        .          .          .          .          •          .110 

X. 

In  which  the  Shepherd  relates  how  the  Bagmen  were  lost,      .       123 

XL 

The  Execution  of  the  Mutineer,  .  .  .          .133 

XII. 

In  which  the  Shepherd  paints  his  own  portrait,  .  .       150 

XIII. 

In  which  Tickler  captures  the  calf,  and  the  Shepherd  secures 

the  Bonassus,  .  .  •          •          •          .164 

XIV. 

In  which  the  Shepherd  and  Tickler  take  to  the  water,  .       184 

XV. 

The  Shepherd  is  attacked  by  Tic-Douloureux,  A  ngina  Pectoris, 

and  Jaundice,  .....  212 

XVI. 

In  which,  after  North  is  hanged  and  drowned  in  a  dream,  the 

Shepherd  is  tempted  and  falls,        ....       232 

XVII. 
The  Haggis  Deluge, 248 


TJte  Contents  ^  vii 

xvm. 

PAGE. 

In  which  the  Shepherd,  having  skated  from  Yarrow,  takes  a 

planter,  ......*      261 

XIX. 

In  which,  after  settling  Othello,  North  floors  the  Shepherd,   .      282 

XX. 

In  which,  during  the  great  storm,  the  Snuggery  window  is 

blown  in,  and  the  Shepherd  suffers,  .  .  •       302 

XXL 

In  which,  the  English  Opium-Eater  dining  with  the  Three, 

the  Shepherd  mounts  Bonassus,      ....      323 

XXII. 

The  Bloody  Battle  of  the  Bees,  .          .  854 

XXIII. 

In  which,  after  the  Shepherd  has  appeared  successively  as  Pan, 
as  Hercules,  and  the  Apollo  Belvidere,  North  exhibits 
his  great  picture — the  Defence  of  Socrates,  .  •  386 

XXIV. 

n  which,  in  the  race  from  the  Saloon  to  the  Snuggery,  Tickler 

and  the  Shepherd  are  distanced  by  North,          .          .      410 

XXV. 

In  which  North  erects  his  tent  in  the  Fairy's  Cleugh,  and  is 

crowned  King  of  Scotland  by  the  Forest  Worthies,         .       440 
XXVI. 

A  night  on  the  leads  of  the  Lodge,         ....       462 


viii  The  Contents. 

* 

XXVIL 

PAOK. 

A  Dinner  in  the  Forest, 485 

xxvm. 

A  Day  at  Tibbie's, 498 

XXIX. 

In  which  the  Shepherd  appears  for  the  last  time-as  the  terrible 

Tawney  of  Timbuctoo,  .....       527 

APPENDIX, 553 

GLOSSARY,  .  ....      561 


TBE  INTRODUCTION. 


JOHN  WILSON  had  the  eagle  beak,  the  lion-like  mane 
of  the  Napiers.  Mrs.  Barrett  Browning  has  said  of 
Homer : — 

"  Homer,  with  the  broad  suspense 
Of  thund'rous  brows,  and  lips  intense 
Of  garrulous  god-innocence  " — 

and  whenever  I  read  the  lines,  the  mighty  presence 
of  Christopher  North  rises  before  me.  John  Wilson 
was  an  immense  man,  physically  and  mentally,  and 
yet  his  nature  was  essentially  incomplete.  He  needed 
concentration.  Had  the  tree  been  thoroughly  pruned, 
the  fruit  would  have  been  larger  and  richer.  As  it 
was,  he  seldom  contrived  to  sustain  the  inspiration 
unimpaired  for  any  time  ;  it  ran  away  into  shallows, 
and  spread  fruitlessly  over  the  sand.  In  many  re 
spects  one  of  the  truest,  soundest,  honestest  men 
who  ever  lived,  he  used  to  grow  merely  declamatory 
at  times.  Amazingly  humorous  as  the  Shepherd  of 
the  "  Noctes  "  is  (there  are  scenes,  such  as  the  open 
ing  of  the  haggis  and  the  swimming  match  with 

ix 


x  The  Introduction. 

Tickler  while  the  London  packet  comes  up  the  Forth, 
which  manifest  the  humor  of  conception  as  well  as 
the  humor  of  character,  in  a  measure  that  has  seldom 
been  surpassed  by  the  greatest  masters),  his  fun  is 
often  awkward,  and  his  enthusiasm  is  apt  to  tire. 
Yet  had  Shakespeare  written  about  Falstaff  once  a 
month  for  twenty  years,  might  we  not  possibly  have 
said  the  same  even  of  him  ?  And  if  the  Shepherd  at 
his  best  could  be  taken  out  of  the  "  Noctes  "  and 
compressed  into  a  compact  duodecimo  volume,  we 
should  have  an  original  piece  of  imaginative  humor, 
which  might  fitly  stand  for  all  time  by  the  side  of 
the  portly  knight.  But  the  world  is  two  crowded 
and  too  busy  to  preserve  a  creation  which  is  not 
uniformly  at  its  best, — which,  on  the  contrary,  is 
diffused  and  diluted  through  forty  volumes  of  a 
magazine  ;  and  so  it  is  possible  that,  not  quite  unwill 
ingly,  posterity  will  Let  the  Shepherd  die.  The  same  in 
a  way  holds  true  of  Christopher's  own  fame.  The  mor 
alist  has  told  us  from  of  old  that  only  the  mortal  part  of 
genius  returns  to  the  dust.  But  then  this  moral  part 
was  so  large  a  part  of  Wilson.  He  was  such  a  mag 
nificent  man  !  No  liteiary  man  of  our  time  has  had 
such  muscles  and  sinews,  such  an  ample  chest,  such 
perfect  lungs,  such  a  stalwart  frame,  such  an  expan 
sive  and  Jove-like  brow.  Had  he  lived  in  the  classic 
ages  they  would  have  made  a  god  of  him, — not  be 
cause  he  wrote  good  verses,  or  possessed  the  divine 
gift  of  eloquence,  but  because  his  presence  was  god 
like.  There  was  a  Tuddy  glow  of  health  about  him, 
too,  such  as  the  people  of  no  nation  have  possessed  as 


The   Introduction.  xi 

a  nation  since  the  culture  of  the  body,  as  an  art  of  the 
national  life,  has  been  neglected.  The  critic,  there 
fore,  who  never  saw  Wilson,  cannot  rightly  estimate 
the  sources  of  his  influence.  We,  on  the  contrary, 
who  looked  upon  him,  who  heard  him  speak,  know 
that  we  can  never  listen  to  his  like  again  ;  never  can 
look  upon  one  who,  while  so  intellectually  noble,  so 
eloquent,  so  flushed  with  poetic  life,  did  so  nearly  ap 
proach,  in  strength  and  comeliness,  the  type  of  bodily 
perfection.  The  picture  of  the  old  man  eloquent  in 
his  college  class-room — the  old  man  who  had  breasted 
the  flooded  Awe,  and  cast  his  fly  across  the  bleakest 
tarns  of  Lochaber — pacing  restlessly  to  and  fro 
like  a  lion  in  his  confined  cage,  his"  grand  face  work 
ing  with  emotion  while  he  turns  to  the  window, 
through  which  are  obscurely  visible  the  spires  and 
smoky  gables  of  the  ancient  city,  his  dilated  nostril 
yet  "  full  of  youth,"  his  small  grey  eye  alight  with 
visionary  fire,  as  he  discourses  (somewhat  discursive 
ly,  it  must  be  owned)  of  truth,  and  beauty,  and 
goodness,  is  one  not  to  be  forgotten.  Had  he  talked 
the  merest  twaddle,  the  effect  would  have  been  very 
nearly  the  same :  he  was  a  living  poem  where  the 
austere  grandeur  of  the  old  drama  was  united  with 
the  humor  and  tenderness  of  modern  story-tellers ; 
and  some  such  feeling  it  was  that  attracted  and  fas 
cinated  his  hearers. 

It  has  been  said  by  unfriendly  critics  that  Wilson 
was  an  egotist.  Montaigne  and  Charles  Lamb  were 
egotists  ;  but  we  do  not  complain  of  an  egotism  to 
which  not  the  least  charm  of  their  writings  is  to  be 


xii  The  Introduction. 

attributed.  The  truth  is  that  the  charge  against  Wil 
son  rests  on  a  misconception.  Christopher  North  was 
egotistical,  but  Christopher  North  was  a  creation  of  the 
imagination.  He  represented  to  the  world  the  invin 
cible  Tory  champion,  before  whose  crutch  the  whole 
breed  of  Radicals  and  Whiglings  and  Cockneys  fled 
as  mists  before  the  sun.  It  was  impossible  to  endow 
this  gouty  Apollo  with  the  frailties  of  mortal  combat 
ants.  Haughty  scorn,  immaculate  wisdom,  unassail 
able  virtue,  were  the  characteristics  of  the  potent 
tyrant.  We  have  as  little  right  to  say  that  Wilson 
was  an  egotist  because  Christopher  North  was  ego 
tistical  (though,  no  doubt,  in  his  old  age,  he  could 
have  looked  the  part  admirably),  as  to  say  that  Milton 
was  immoral  because  he  drew  the  devil.  Men 
(whiggish  and  priggish)  may  continue  to  resent, 
indeed,  as  indelicate  and  unbecoming,  the  license  of 
his  fancy  and  the  airy  extravagance  of  his  rhetoric ; 
but  a  juster  and  more  catholic  criticism  confesses  that 
in  the  wide  realms  of  literature  there  is  room  for  the 
grotesque  gambols  of  Puck,  for  Attiel's  moonlight  flit- 
tings,  for  the  imaginative  riot  of  Wilson  and  Heine 
and  Jean  Paul. 


These  sentences — written  several  years  ago — may 
serve  to  explain  how  the  idea  of  the  present  work 
first  presented  itself  to  me.  My  design  has  been  to 
compress  into  a  single  manageable  volume  whatever 
is  permanent  and  whatever  is  universal  in  the  Comedy 
of  the  "  Noctes  Ambrosianse."  The  "  Noctes  "  are  con- 


The  Introduction.  xiii 

ceived  in  the  true  spirit  of  Comedy,  using  the  word 
in  its  widest  sense,  and  their  presentation  of  human 
life  is  as  keen,  as  broad,  and  as  mellow  as  that  of  any 
of  our  dramatists.  In  this  great  play  among  various 
subordinate  characters,  three  figures  stand  out  with 
surprising  force, — Christopher  North,  Timothy  Tick 
ler,  and  the  Ettrick  Shepherd.  During  these  hun- 
dred-and-one  ambrosial  nights,  what  heights  of  the 
poetical  imagination  are  scaled,  what  depths  of  the 
human  soul  are  sounded,  by  the  immortal  "  Three  ! " 
While  the  whole  is  bathed  in  an  atmosphere  of 
natural  humor,  of  irrepressible  fun,  of  laughter  that 
is  not  the  less  genuine  because  it  is  at  times  closely 
akin  to  tears. 

But  the  true  unity  of  the  piece  is  obscured  by  the 
introduction  of  much  foreign  matter.  It  is  overlaid 
and  smothered  by  protracted  discussions  upon  topics 
of  transient,  personal,  and  local  interest  only.  In 
the  "  Noctes,"  political  events  and  notabilities  that 
are  no  of  interest  to  no  living  creature — romances 
which  flourished  for  a  season,  poems  which  have  been 
swept  into  oblivion — are  criticised  at  unreasonable, 
or  at  least  unreadable,  length.  Many  of  the  smaller 
social  and  political  portraits  are  first-rate  of  their 
kind, — such  play  of  the  imagination,  such  splendor, 
versatility,  and,  it  must  be  added,  ferocity  of  invective 
as  "  The  Glasgow  Gander,"  for  instance,  provoked  by 
his  assault  on  Walter  Scott,  are  to  be  found  nowhere 
else  in  our  literature  since  the  days  of  Dryden.  But 
the  "  Gander  "  is  dead  ;  and  even  the  most  patient 
reader  tires  of  controversies  which,  though  perfectly 


i  i  v  The  Introduction. 

suited  to  the  pages  of  a  critical  j  jurnal  or  a 
review,  are  entirely  out  of  place  in  a  permanent  work 
of  the  artistic  imagination. 
•  It  was  clear,  therefore,  that  if  these 
could  be  conveniently  detached,  the  true  dramatic 
unity  of  the  Comedy  would  be  made  manifest  and 
emphasized;  and  the  question  then  came  to  be. — 
Was  such  separation  possible  without  vital  injury  to 
the  whole,  without  reducing  the  entire  building  to 
mere  fragmentary  ruin  ?  It  appeared  to  me  that  it 
was  possible ;  and  this  volume  will  enable  the  reader 
to  judge  whether  my  conviction  was  well  founded. 
The  operation  was,  I  admit,  a  difficult  and  delicate 
one,  and  I  cannot  hope  that  it  has  been  perfectly  suc 
cessful.  Passages  have  been  omitted  which  might 
have  been  retained,  and  passages  have  been  retained 
which  might  have  been  omitted.  But  I  have  tried, 
as  far  as  practicable,  by  preventing  any  dialogue  from 
being  broken  into  mere  fragments,  to  preserve  the 
current  and  continuity  of  the  narrative.  The 
lacunas,  I  suspect,  are  sometimes  visible  to  the  naked 
eye ;  but  on  the  whole  I  do  not  feel  that  they  are 
likely  to  affect  the  reader's  enjoyment,  or  that  they 
mar  the  general  effect — the  tout~€m-*ammal,  as  the 
Shepherd  would  say — of  an  almost  unique  piece  of 
dramatic  humor.  In  what  seemed  to  be  a  case  of 
doubt,  I  have  inclined  to  lean  rather  to  the  side  of 
brevity  than  of  prolixity.  Many  of  the  descriptive 
passages  belong  to  what  may  be  called  the  florid 
order  of  literary  style ;  and  these  do  not  suffer,  but 


The  Introduction.  xv 

on  the  contrary  are  improved,  by  moderate  retrench 
ment  and  compression. 

One  of  the  most  difficult  duties  devolving  on  a  writer 
of  books  in  these  days  is  to  find  an  appropriate  and 
unappropriated  title — to  know  what  to  call  his  work; 
and  it  has  been  suggested  that  an  author  in  such 
straits  should  "  request  the  prayers  of  the  congrega 
tion."  Even  a  mere  editor  4ias  difficulties  in  his  way, 
— as  the  present  editor  has  discovered.  To  have 
called  this  volume  the  "  Noctes  Ambrosianao  "  might 
have  produced  a  false  impression,  seeing  that  it  does 
not  contain  more  than  a  third  of  the  matter  which  the 
"  Noctes  "  written  by  Professor  Wilson  contained.  On 
the  other  hand,  it  is  a  selection  made  upon  a  definite 
principle;  so  that  to  have  called  it  a  volume  of 
"  Selections  "  would  not  have  sufficiently  indicated  its 
scope  and  design.  The  word  required  was  one  which 
could  be  fitly  applied  to  that  portion  of  the  work 
which  deals  wit  h,or  presents  directly  and  dramatically 
to  the  reader,  human  life,  and  character,  and  passion, 
as  distinguished  from  that  portion  of  it  which  is  fV/V/m/, 
and  devoted  to  the  discussion  of  subjects  of  literary, 
artistic,  or  political  interest  only.  The  word  "Comedy  " 

(although  liable  from  modern  use  or  abuse  to  be  mis 
understood  )  ultimately  appeared  to  me  to  be  the  most 
suitable  ;  for,  even  if  misunderstood  the  misunderstand 
ing  could  not  be  very  serious.  It  may  in  fact  be  said 
with  perfect  truth  that,  although  the  8nl>#t,iui',-  of  the 
Discussion  or  Debate  in  which  the  kl  Three  "  engage  is 
often  grave,  and  not  un frequently  pathetic,  the  presen 
tation  is  essentially  humorous,— the  surroundings  being 


xvi  The  Introduction. 

whimsical,  and  the  situations  mirth-provoking.  The 
44  Noctes  Ambrosianse,"  as  a  characteristic  product  of 
the  dramatic  spirit,  belongs  to  the  Comic  Muse. 
.  The  papers  from  which  the  materials  of  the  present 
volume  are  taken,  appeared  in  "  Blackwood's  Maga 
zine  "  during  the  ten  years  from  1825  to  1835. 

I  should  not  be  doing  justice  to  my  own  feelings  if 
I  were  to  close  this  prefatory  note  without  a  brief 
tribute  to  the  editor  of  the  original  edition  of  the 
"  Noctes," — James  Frederick  Ferrier.* 

Ferrier  was  a  philosophical  Quixote, — a  man  who 
loved  "  divine  philosophy  "  for  its  own  sake.  The 
student  of  pure  metaphysics  is  now  rarely  met  with  ; 
the  age  of  mechanical  invention — of  the  steam-engine 
and  the  telegraph — being  disposed  to  regard  the  pro 
verbially  barren  fields  of  psychology  with  disrelish  and 
disrespect.  Against  this  materalizing  tendency,  Pro 
fessor  Ferrier's  life  was  an  uninterrupted  and  essen 
tially  noble  protest.  No  truer,  simpler,  or  more  un 
selfish  student  ever  lived.  Seated  in  his  pleasant 
rustic  library,  amid  its  stores  of  curious  and  antiquated 
erudition,  he  differed  as  much  from  the  ordinary  men 
one  meets  in  the  law  courts  or  on  "  'Change,"  as  the 
quaint  academic  city  where  he  resided  differs  from  Sal- 
ford  or  Birmingham.  It  was  here — in  his  library — 
that  Ferrier  spent  the  best  of  his  days  ;  here  that  he 

*  The  present  edition  is  baaed  upon  that  edited  by  Professor  Ferrier. 
The  material  passages  of  the  Preface  which  he  contributed  are  reprinted 
In  the  Appendix.  The  Notes  also  are  mainly  taken  from  that  edition, 
which  must  always  remain  the  standard,  and,  so  to  speak,  classical  edition  of 
the  "  Noctes  AmbrosiansB." 


The  Introduction.  xvii 

commented  on  the  Greek  psychologists,  or  explored  the 
intricacies  of  the  Hegelian  logic  ;  and  for  Hegel  (be  it 
said  in  passing)  he  entertained  an  immense,  and,  con 
sidering  the  character  of  his  own  mind — its  clearness, 
directness,  and  love  of  terseness  and  epigram — some 
what  inexplicable  admiration.  At  the  same  time  he 
was  no  mere  bookworm.  He  did  not  succeed,  and 
did  not  try  to  succeed,  at  the  Scottish  bar,  to  which 
he  was  called ;  but  he  had  many  of  the  qualities — 
subtlet}^  of  thought,  lucidity  of  expression,  power  of 
arrangement — which  ought  to  have  secured  success. 
He  took  a  keen  interest  in  the  letters  and  politics  of 
the  day.  His  own  style  was  brilliant  and  trenchant, 
and  it  was  probably  the  slovenliness  and  inelegance  of 
Reid  (which  even  the  studied  art  and  succinct  power 
of  Hamilton  have  been  unable  to  conceal  or  repair) 
which  drove  him  into  the  camp  of  the  enemy.  He 
was  considered,  in  orthodox  philosophical  circles,  some 
what  of  a  free  lance.  He  had  a  sharp  scorn  for 
laborious  dulness  and  pretentious  futility, — a  scorn 
which  he  took  no  pains  to  disguise.  When  he  de 
scended  into  the  controversial  arena,  he  was  sure  to 
be  in  the  thickest  of  the  melee.  He  hit  right  and  left ; 
quietly,  deftly,  for  the  most  part,  it  is  true,  yet  with  a 
force  and  precision  which  it  was  unpleasant  to  provoke 
and  difficult  to  resist.  If  his  life  should  be  written 
hereafter,  let  his  biographer  take  for  its  motto  the  five 
words  of  the  "  Faery  Queen,"  which  the  biographer  of 
the  Napiers  has  so  happily  chosen — "  Fierce  warres  and 
faithful  loves"  For  though  combative  over  his  books 
and  his  theories,  his  nature  was  singularly  pure,  affec- 


The  Introduction. 

tionate,  and  tolerant.  He  loved  his  friends  even  bet" 
ter  than  he  hated  his  foes.  His  prejudices  were  in 
vincible  ;  but  apart  from  his  prejudices,  his  mind  was 
open  and  receptive, — prepared  to  welcome  truth  from 
whatever  quarter  it  came.  Ferrier,  other  than  a  high 
Tory,  is  an  impossible  conception  to  his  friends  ;  yet 
had  he  been  the  most  pronounced  of  Radicals,  ho 
could  not  have  returned  more  constantly  to  first  prin 
ciples,  nor  showed  more  speculative  fearlessness.  He 
was,  in  fact,  an  intrepid  and  daring  reasoner,  who  al 
lowed  few  formulas,  political,  ecclesiastical,  or  ethi 
cal,  to  cramp  his  mind,  or  restrain  the  free  play  of  his 
intellectual  faculties.  This  contrast,  no  doubt,  pre 
sents  an  air  of  paradox;  but  Ferrier's  character,  as 
well  as  his  logic,  was  sometimes  paradoxical.  He 
was  a  man  of  infinite  subtlety,  and  he  liked  to  play 
with  his  fancies, — to  place  them  under  strong  lights, 
and  in  unusual  attitudes ;  but  he  possessed  a  fund  of 
humor  and  common-sense  which  made  him  on  the 
whole  a  sound  and  discerning  student  of  human  na 
ture.  He  was  content  to  spend  his  days  in  contem 
plative  retirement ;  but  every  one  who  has  seen  him 
must  have  remarked  a  certain  eager  look — an  eager 
ness  of  gesture  and  of  speech — which  indicated  quite 
other  than  a  sluggish  repose.  He  united  with  a  pe 
culiar  sensitiveness  of  constitution  and  fineness  of 
critical  faculty,  a  sturdy  and  indomitable  soul.  His 
frame,  in  his  latter  years  at  least,  was  slim  and  atten 
uated  ;  but  to  the  end  he  was  one  of  the  manliest  of 
men.  He  was  capable  of  becoming  on  occasion,  as  I 
have  indicated,  hotly,  and  it  may  be  unreasonably 


The  Introduction.  xix 

indignant.  Perhaps  to  this  original  fire  and  fineness 
of  nature  his  early  decline  is  to  be  attributed.  The 
fiery  soul  4  fretted  the  pigmy  body  to  decay."  Taken 
from  us  in  the  prime  of  life  and  in  the  vigor  of  his 
powers,  the  death  of  such  a  man  is  a  loss  to  our 
philosophical  schools  not  quickly  to  be  repaired ;  to 
his  relatives,  to  his  disciples,  to  his  students — to  all 
who  knew  him  in  the  easy  intercourse  of  social  life 
— the  loss  is  irreparable.  Apart  altogether  from 
those  qualities  of  heart  and  intellect,  of  which  the 
world  knows,  or  may  yet  know,  his  friends  will 
not  soon  forget  his  refined  simplicity  of  manner, 
— a  manner  perfectly  unaffected,  peculiar  to  him 
self,  and  indicating  a  remarkable  delicacy  of  or 
ganization,  yet  smacking  somehow  of  the  high  breed 
ing  and  chivalrous  courtesy  of  that  old-fashioned 
school  of  Scottish  gentlemen  whom  he  had  known  in 
his  youth,  and  of  which  he  remained  the  represen 
tative. 

J.  S. 

THE  HERMITAGE  OF  BRAID, 
llth  May,  1876. 


NOCTES  AMBROSIANJl. 


IN  WHICH  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH,  TIMOTHY  TICK 
LER,  AND  THE  ETTRICK  SHEPHERD  ARE  INTRO. 
DUCED  TO  THE  READER. 

Blue   Parlor.  —  Midnight.  —  Watchman    heard  crying  "  One 


NORTH.—  TICKLER.—  THE  ETTRICK  SHEPHERD. 
The  middle  Term  asleep. 

Shepherd.  Sir,  I  wish  there  was  ony  waukening  o'  Mr 
Tickler.  It's  no'  like  him  to  fa'  asleep.  Whisht  !  whisht  ! 
Hear  till  him  !  hear  till  him  ! 

North.  Somnium  Scipionis  ! 

Tickler  (asleep).  It  was  creditable  to  a  British  public.  Poor 
dear  little  soul,  she  has  been  cruelly  treated  altogether.  My 
sweet  Miss  Laetitia  Foote,*  although  I  am  now  rather  - 

Shepherd.  Isna  the  wicked  auld  deevil  dreamin'  o'  that 
play  actress  ! 

Tickler  (dormiens).  Three  times  three.  —  Hurra  !  hurra  I 
hurra  ! 

Shepherd.  That's  fearsome.  Only  think  how  his  mind 
corresponds  wi'  his  friends,  even  in  a  dwam  o'  drink,  —  for  I 

*  Afterwards  the  Countess  of  Harrington. 


2  Th-e  Pastoral  Drama. 

never  saw  him  sae  fou  since  the  king's  visit!  I'll  just  pu 
the  nose  o'  him,  or  kittle  it  wi'  the  neb  o'  my  keelivine  pen.* 
(Sicfacit.) 

•  Tickler  (awaking).  The  cases  are  totally  different.  But, 
Hogg,  what  are  you  staring  at  ?  Why,  you  have  been  sleep 
ing  since  twelve  o'clock. 

Shepherd.  I  hae  some  thocht  o'  writing  a  play, — a  Pastoral 
Drama. 

North.  What,  James  ?  After  Allan  Ramsay — after  the 
Gentle  Shepherd? 

Shepherd.  What  for  no  ?  That's  a  stupid  apothegm,  though 
you  said  it.  I  wad  hae  mair  variety  o'  characters,  and  incee- 
dents,  and  passions  o'  the  human  mind  in  my  drama — mair 
fun,  and  frolic  and  daffinf — in  short,  mair  o'  what  you,  and 
the  like  o'  you,  ca'  coorseness  ; — no  sae  muckle  see-sawing 
between  ony  twa  individual  hizzies,  as  in  Allan  ;  and,  aboon 
a*  things,  a  mair  natural  and  wiselike  $  catastrophe.  My 
peasant  or  shepherd  lads  should  be  sae  in  richt  earnest,  and 
no  turn  out  Sirs  and  Lords  upon  you  at  the  hinder  end  o' 
the  drama.  No  but  that  I  wad  aiblins  introduce  the  upper 
ranks  intil  the  wark  ;  but  they  should  stand  abeigh  frae§  the 
lave  o'  the  characters, — by  way  o'  "  similitude  in  dissimilitude," 
as  that  haverer  ||  Wordsworth  is  sae  fond  o'  talking  and 
writing  about.  Aboon  a'  things,  I  wuss  to  draw  the  pictur 
o'  a  perfect  and  polished  Scotch  gentleman  o'  the  auld  schule. 

North    Videlicet,  —Tickler ! 

Shepherd.  Him,  the  lang-legged  sinner !  Na,  na  ;  I'll  im 
mortalize  baith  him  and  yoursel  in  my  "  Ain  Life," — in  my 
yawtobeeograffy.  I'll  pay  aff  a'  auld  scores  there,  I'se  war 
rant  you.  Deevil  tak  me  gin  IT  I  haeiia  a  great  mind — (« 

*  Keelivine— chalk  pencil.  \  Daffin— liumorsome  nonsense. 

%  Wiselike— judicious.  §  Abeigh/rae—&loof  from 

0  Haverer — proser.  IF  Qin—U. . 


Tickler's  Legacy.  3 

pause, — -jug}— to  hawn  *  you  down  to  the  latest  posterity  as 
a  couple  o' 

North.  James  ! — James  ! — James  ! 

Shepherd.  Confound  thae  grey  glittering  een  o'  yours,  you 
warlock  that  you  are !  I  maun  like  you,  and  respeck  you, 
and  admire  you  too,  Mr.  North  ;  but  och,  sirs  !  do  you  ken 
that  whiles  I  just  girn,  out-by  yonner,  wi'  perfect  wudness  * 
when  I  think  o'  you,  and  your  chiels  about  you,  lauchin'  at 
and  rinnin'  down  me,  and  ither  men  o'  genius 

North.  James  ! — James  ! — James  ! 

Tickler.  Dig  it  well  into  him — he  is  a  confounded  churl. 

Shepherd.  No  half  sae  bad  as  yoursel,  Mr.  Tickler.  He's 
serious  sometimes,  and  ane  kens  when  he  is  serious.  But  as 
for  you,  there's  no  a  grain  o'  sincerity  in  a'  your  composition. 
You  wadna  shed  a  tear  gin  your  Shepherd,  as  you  ca'  him, 
were  dead,  and  in  the  moulds. 

Tickler  (evidently  much  affected].  Have  I  not  left  you  my 
fiddle  in  my  will  ?  When  I  am  gone,  Jamie,  use  her  carefully 
— keep  her  in  good  strings — and  whenever  you  screw  her  up, 
think  of  Timothy  Tickler — and (His  utterance  is  choked.) 

North.  James  !  James  !  James  ! —  Timothy  !  Timothy  ! 
Timothy  ! —  Something  too  much  of  this.  Reach  me  over 
that  pamphlet ;  I  wish  to  light  my  cigar.  The  last  speech 
and  dying  words  of  the  Rev.  William  Lisle  Bowles  ! 

Shepherd.  What !  a  new  poem  ?  I  houp  it  is.  Lisle  Bolls 
is  a  poet  o'  real  genius.  I  never  could  thole  a  sonnet  till  I 
read  his.  Is  the  pamphlet  a  poem  ? 

North.  No  Shepherd.  It  is  prose ;  being  a  further  portion 
of  Botheration  about  Pope,  f 

*  Hawn— hand.  t  Wudness— distraction. 

$  The  "  botheration  about  Pope  "  refers  to  a  protracted  controversy  orig- 
nating  in  a  dispute  between  Bowles  and  Campbell,  as  to  whether  nature  or 
art  supplied  the  better  materials  for  poetry.  Most  of  the  leading  literary 
men  of  the  day  had  been  drawn  into  the  discussion. 


4  Pope. 

Shepherd.  I  care  little  about  Pop — except  his  Louisa  arid 
Abelard.  That's  a  grand  elegy  ;  but  for  coorseness  it  beats 
me  hollow.  .  .  .  Puir  wee  bit  hunched-backed,  windle-strae- 
legged,  gleg-eed,  *  clever,  acute,  ingenious,  sateerical,  weel- 
informed,  warm-hearted,  real  philosphical,  and  maist  poetical 
creature,  wi'  his  sounding  translation  o'  a'  Homer's  works, 
that  reads  just  like  an  original  War  Yepic, — his  Yessay  on 
Man,  that,  in  spite  o'  what  a  set  o'  ignoramuses  o'  theological 
critics  say  about  Bolingbroke  and  Crousass,  and  heterodoxy 
and  atheism,  and  like  havers,  is  just  ane  o'  the  best  moral 
discourses  that  ever  I  heard  in  or  out  o'  the  pulpit, — his  Ye- 
pistles  about  the  Passions,  and  sic  like,  in  the  whilk  he  goes 
baith  deep  and  high,  far  deeper  and  higher  baith  than  mony 
a  modern  poet,  who  must  needs  be  either  in  a  diving-bell  or 
a  balloon, — his  Rape  o'  the  Lock  o'  Hair,  wi'  a'  these  sylphs 
floating  about  in  the  machinery  o'  the  Rosicrucian  Philoso- 
phism,  just  perfectly  yelegant  and  gracefu',  and  as  gude,  in 
their  way,  as  onything  o'  my  ain  about  fairies,  either  in  the 
Queen's  Wake  or  Queen  ffynde, — his  Louisa  to  Abelard  is, 
as  I  said  before,  coorse  in  the  subject-matter,  but,  0  sirs  ! 
powerfu*  and  pathetic  in  execution — and  sic  a  perfect  spate  f 
o'  versification  !  His  unfortunate  lady,  wha  sticked  hersel' 
for  love-wi'  a  drawn  sword,  and  was  afterwards  seen  as  a 
ghost,  dim-beckoning  through  the  shade — a  verra  poetical 
thoct  surely,  and  full  both  of  terror  and  pity 

North.  Stop,  James — you  will  run  yourself  out  of  breath. 
Why,  you  said,  a  few  minutes  ago,  that  you  did  not  care 
much  about  Pope,  and  were  not  at  all  f  am 'liar  with  his  works 
— you  have  them  at  your  finger  ends. 

Shepherd.  I  never  ken  what's  in  my  mind  till  it  begins  to 
work.  Sometimes  I  fin'  mysel  just  perfectly  stupid — my 
mind,  as  Locke  says  in  his  Treatise  on  Government,  quite  a 

*  Oleg-eed — sharp-eyed.  f  Spate — stream  in  flood 


"  Lisle  Bolh  "  5 

carte  blanche — I  just  ken  that  I'm  alive  by  my  breathing, 
when,  a'  at  ance,  my  sowl  begins  to  hum  like  a  hive  about  to 
cast  off  a  swarm — out  rush  a  thousand  springing  thochts,  for 
a  while  circling  round  and  round  like  verra  bees — and  then, 
like  them  too,  winging  their  free  and  rejoicing  way  into  the 
mountain  wilderness  and  a'  its  blooming  heather — returning, 
in  due  time,  with  store  o'  wax  on  their  thees,  and  a  wamefu' 
o'  hinney,  redolent  of  blissful  dreams  gathered  up  in  the 
sacred  solitudes  of  nature. 

Tickler.  Bowles  also  depreciates  his  genius. 

North.  No,  no,  no  ! 

Tickler.  Yes,  yes,  yes  ! 

Shepherd.  Gude  save  us,  Mr.,  Tickler,  you're  no  sober  yet, 
or  you  wad  never  contradic  Mr.  North. 

Tickler.  Bowles  also  depreciates  his  genius.  What  infernal 
stuff  all  that,  about  nature  and  art !  Why,  Pope  himself  set 
tles  the  question  against  our  friend  Bowles  ID  one  line  : — 

"  Nature  must  give  way  to  Art." 

North.  Pope's  poetry  is  full  of  nature,  at  least  of  what  I 
uave  been  in  the  constant  habit  of  accounting  nature  for  the 
last  threescore  and  ten  years.  But  (thank  you,  James,  that 
snuff  is  really  delicious  !)  leaving  nature  and  art,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  I  wish  to  ask  a  single  question — What  poet  of 
this  age,  with  the  exception  perhaps  of  Byron,  can  be  justly 
said,  when  put  into  close  comparison  with  Pope,  to  havf 
written  the  English  language  at  all  ? 

Shepherd.  Tut,  tut,  Mr.  North  ;  you  needna  gang  far  to 
get  an  answer  to  that  question.  I  can  write  the  English  lan 
guage — I'll  no  say  as  well  as  Pop,  for  he  was  an  Englishman, 
but 

North.  Well,  I  shall  except  you,  James  ;  but,  with  the 
single  exception  of  Hogg,  from  what  living  poet  is  it  possible 
to  select  any  passage  that  will  bear  to  be  spouted  (say  by 


6  Superiority  of  Pope. 

James  Ballantyne  *  himself,  the  best  declaimer  extant)  after 
any  one  of  fifty  casually  taken  passages  from  Pope  ? — Not 
one. 

Tickler.  What  would  become  of  Bowles  himself,  with  all 
his  elegance,  pathos,  and  true  feeling  ?  Oh,  dear  me,  James  ! 
what  a  dull,  dozing,  disjointed,  dawdling  dowdy  of  a  drawl 
would  be  his  Muse,  in  her  very  best  voice  and  tune,  when 
called  upon  to  get  up  and  sing  a  solo  after  the  sweet  and 
strong  singer  of  Twickenham  ! 

North.  Or  Wordsworth — with  his  eternal — Here  we  go 
up,  up,  and  up,  and  here  we  go  down,  down,  and  here  we  go 
roundabout,  roundabout!  Look  at  the  nerveless  laxity  of  his 
Excursion  I  What  interminable  prosing  !  The  language  is 
out  of  condition, — fat  and  fozy,  thick-winded,  purfled  and 
plethoric.  Can  he  be  compared  with  Pope  ?  Fie  on't !  no, 
no,  no  ! — Pugh,  pugh  ! 

Tickler.  Southey — Coleridge — Moore  ? 

North.  No  ;  not  one  of  them.  They  are  all  eloquent,  dif 
fusive  rich,  lavish,  generous,  prodigal  of  their  words.  But 
so  are  they  all  deficient  in  sense,  muscle,  sinew,  thews,  ribs, 
spine.  Pope,  as  an  artist,  beats  them  hollow.  Catch  him 
twaddling. 

Shepherd.  I  care  far  less  about  Pop,  and  the  character 
and  genius  of  Pop,  than  I  do  about  our  own  Byron.  Many 
a  cruel  thing  has  been  uttered  against  him,  and  I  wish,  Mr. 
North,  you  would  vindicate  him,  now  that  his  hand  is  cauld. 

North.  I  have  written  a  few  pages  for  my  next  number, 
which  I  think  will  please  you,  James.  Pray,  what  do  you 
consider  the  most  wicked  act  of  Byron's  whole  wicked  life  ? 

Shepherd.  I  declare  to  God,  that  I  do  not  know  of  any  one 
wicked  act  in  his  life  at  all.  Tickler,  there,  used  to  cut  him 
up  long  ago, — what  says  he  now  ? 

•  The  friend  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 


The  Death  of  Byron.  1 

Tickler.  The  base  multitude,  day  after  day,  week  after 
week,  month  after  month,  year  after  year,  got  up  brutal 
falsehoods  concerning  his  private  life,  and  these  they  mixed 
up  and  blended  with  their  narrow  and  confused  conceptions 
of  his  poetical  productions,  till  they  imagined  the  real,  living, 
flesh-and-blood  Byron  to  be  a  monster,  familiarly  known  to 
them  in  all  his  hideous  propensities  and  practices.  He  was, 
with  all  his  faults,  a  noble  being,  and  I  shall  love  Hobhouse* 
as  long  as  I  live.  What  it  is  to  be  a  gentleman  ! 

North.  The  character  of  one  of  the  greatest  poets  the 
world  ever  saw,  in  a  very  few  years,  will  be  discerned  in  the 
clear  light  of  truth.  How  quickly  all  misrepresentations  die 
away  !  One  hates  calumny,  because  it  is  ugly  and  odious  in 
its  own  insignificant  and  impotent  stinking  self.  But  it  is  al 
most  always  extremely  harmless.  I  believe  at  this  moment  that 
Byron  is  thought  of  as  a  man,  with  an  almost  universal  feel 
ing  of  pity,  forgiveness,  admiration  and  love.  I  do  not  think 
it  would  be  safe  in  the  most  popular  preacher  to  abuse  Byron 
now, — and  that  not  merely  because  he  is  now  dead,  but  be 
cause  England  knows  the  loss  she  has  sustained  in  the  ex 
tinction  of  her  most  glorious  luminary. 

Shepherd.  I  hae  nae  heart  to  speak  ony  mair  about  him — 
puir  fallow.  I'll  try  the  pickled  this  time — the  scalloped 
are  beginning  to  lie  rather  heavy  on  my  stomach.  Oysters 
is  the  only  thing  maist  we  canna  get  at  Altrive.  But  we  have 
capital  cod  and  haddock  now  in  St.  Mary's  Loch. 

Tickler.  James  ! — James  ! — James  ! 

Shepherd.  Nane  o'  your  jeering,  Mr.  Tickler.  The  nat 
uralization  of  sea-fishes  into  fresh-water  lochs  was  recom 
mended  some  years  ago  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  and  twa- 
three  'o  us,  out  by  yonner,  have  carried  the  thing  into  effect. 

*  John  Cam  Hobhouse,  afterwards  Lord  Broughton— the  friend  of  Byron 
when  living,  and  his  defender  when  dead. 


8  Haddocks  in  St  Marys  Loch. 

We  tried  the  oysters  too,  but  we  could  mak  nathing  ava  o' 
them — they  dwindled  into  a  kind  o'  wulks,  and  were  quite 
fushionless,*  a'  beards  and  nae  bodies. 

Tickler.  I  thought  the  scheme  plausible  at  the  time.  I 
read  it  in  the  Edinburgh,  which  I  like,  by  the  way,  much 
better  as  a  zoological  than  a  political  journal.  Have,  you 
sent  a  creel  of  codlings  to  the  editor  ? 

Shepherd.  Why,  I  have  felt  some  delicacy  about  it  just  at 
present.  I  was  afraid  that  he  might  think  it  a  bribe  for  a 
favorable  opinion  of  Queen  Hynde.\ 

North.  No, — no.  Jeffrey  has  a  soul  above  bribery  or 
corruption.  All  the  cod  in  Christendom  would  not  shake  his 
integrity.  You  had,  however,  better  send  half-a-dozen  riz- 
zered  haddocks  to  Tom  Campbell. 

Shepherd.  My  boy  Tammy  wull  never  choke  himself  wi' 
my  fish-banes,  Mr.  North. 

North.  Tom  is  fickle  and  capricious — and  ever  was  so — but 
he  has  a  fine,  a  noble  genius. 

Shepherd.  I'm  no  dispooting  that,  Mr.  North.  No  doubt, 
his  Theodric  is  a  grand,  multifarious,  sublime  poem  ;  although, 
confound  me,  gin  the  worst  fifty  lines  in  a'  Queen  Hynde  are 
nae  worth  the  haill  vollumm.  .  .  .  Wha's  conceit  $  was  the 
boiler  ? 

Tickler.  Your  humble  servant's.  Ambrose  goes  to  bed 
regularly  at  twelve,  and  Richard  half  an  hour  after.  Occa 
sionally,  as  at  present,  old  friends  are  loath  to  go — so,  not  to 
disturb  the  slumbers  of  as  worthy  a  family  as  is  in  all  Scot 
land,  I  ordered  the  boiler  you  now  see  at  Begby  and  Dick- 
son's,  St.  Andrew  Square.  It  holds  exactly  six  common 
kettlefuls.  Strike  it  with  the  poker. — Ay,  James,  you  hear 
by  the  clearness  of  the  tinkle  that  it  is  nearly  low  water. 

*  Fushuynless — without  sap.  t  A  poem  by  Hogg,  published  in  1825. 

$  Conceit — notion. 


The  Shepherd's  Wealth.  9 

Shepherd.  Deel  ma  care.  I  ken  where  the  pump  is  in  the 
back  green — and  if  the  wall's  fanged,*  I'll  bring  up  a  gush 
wi'  a  single  drive.  If  no,  let  us  finish  the  spirits  by  itsel'. 
I  never  saw  the  match  o'  this  tall  square  fallow  o'  a  green 
bottle  for  handing  spirits.  The  verra  neck  o'  him  hauds 
spirits  for  a  jug,  before  you  get  down  to  his  shouthers  ;  and 
we'se  a'  three  be  blin'  fou  or  we  see  the  crystal  knob  inside 
o'  the  doup  o'  him  peering  up  amang  the  subsiding  waters  of 
Glenlivet. 

North.  I  have  bequeathed  you  Magog  in  my  settlement, 
James.  With  it,  and  Tickler's  Cremona,  many  a  cheerful 
night  will  you  spend,  when  we  two  old  codgers  have  laid  off 
life's  pack — 

At  our  feet  a  green  grass  turf, 
And  at  our  head  a  stone. 

Shepherd.  You  and  Mr.  Tickler  are  very  gude  in  leaving 
me  things  in  your  wull ;  but  I  would  prefer  something  in 
haun 

North.  Then,  my  dear  friend,  there  is  a  receipt  for  your 
last  article — the  Shepherd's  Calendar. 

Shepherd.  Twa  tens  !  Come  noo,sirs,  let  me  pay  the  reck 
oning.  .  .  .  Are  ye  gaun  to  raise  the  price  of  a  sheet  this 
Lady-day,  Mr.  North  ? 

North.  My  dear  Hogg,  what  would  you  have  ?  You  are 
rolling  in  wealth — are  you  not  ? 

Hogg.  Ay  ;  but  I  wad  like  fine  to  be  ower  the  head  a'the- 
gither,  man.  That's  my  apothegm. 

North.  Let  me  see — Well,  I  think  I  may  promise  you  a 
twenty-gallon  tree  this  next  Whitsunday,  by  way  of  a  dou 
ceur — a  small  perquisite. 

Hogg.  Twenty  gallons,  man, — that  does  not  serve  our 
house  for  sax  weeks  in  the  summer  part  of  the  year,  when 

*  When  the  piston  of  a  pump-well  ceases  to  work  from  having  become  too 
dry,  water  is  poured  down  upor  It  to  restore  the  action.  This  operation  is 
called  fanglng  the  well. 


10  Buchanan  Lodge. 

a'  the  leeterary  warld  is  tramping  about.  But  ne'er  heed — 
mony  thanks  to  you  for  your  kind  offer,  sir. 

North.  You  must  come  down  to  my  "  happy  rural  seat  of 
various  view,"  James,  on  your  spring  visit  to  Edinburgh — 
Buchanan  Lodge. 

Shepherd.  Wi'  a'  my  heart,  Mr.  North.  I  hear  you've 
been  biggin  a  bonny  lodge  near  Larkfield  yonder,  within  the 
murmur  of  the  sea.  A  walk  on  the  beach  is  a  gran'  thing 
for  an  appetite.  Let's  hear  about  your  house. 

North.  The  whole  tenement  is  on  the  ground  flat.  I 
abhor  stairs  ;  and  there  can  be  no  peace  in  any  mansion 
where  heavy  footsteps  may  be  heard  overhead.  Suppose 
James,  three  sides  of  a  square.  You  approach  the  front  by 
a  fine  serpentine  avenue,  and  enter,  slap-bang,  through  a 
wide  glass  door,  into  a  greenhouse,  a  conservatory  of  every, 
thing  rich  and  rare  in  the  world  of  flowers.  Folding  doors 
are  drawn  noiselessly  into  the  walls,  as  if  by  magic,  and  lo ! 
drawing-room  and  dining-room,  stretching  east  and  west  in 
dim  and  distant  perspective,  commanding  the  Firth,  the  sea, 
the  kingdom  of  Fife,  and  the  Highland  mountains  ! 

Shepherd.  Mercy  on  us,  what  a  panorama ! 

North.  Another  side  of  the  square  contains  kitchen,  ser 
vants'  room,  etc. ;  and  the  third  side  my  study  and  bedrooms, 
— all  still,  silent,  composed,  standing  obscure,  unseen,  unap 
proachable,  holy.  The  fourth  side  of  the  square  is  not, — 
shrubs,  and  trees,  and  a  productive  garden  shut  me  from  be 
hind  ;  while  a  ring-fence,  enclosing  about  five  acres,  just 
sufficient  for  my  nag  and  cow,  form  a  magical  circle,  into 
which  nothing  vile  or  profans  can  intrude.  O'Doherty 
alone  has  overleaped  my  wall, — but  the  Adjutant  was  in 
training  for  his  great  match  (ten  miles  an  hour),  and  when 
he  ran  bolt  against  me  in  Addison's  Walk,*  declared  upon 

*  So  named  after  the  celebrated  walk  in  the  Grounds  of  Magdalen  CoM»<je, 
Oxford,  where  Professor  Wilson  was  educated. 


The  Mysteries  of  Incubation.  11 

honor  that  he  was  merely  taking  a  step  across  the  country, 
and  that  he  had  no  idea  of  being  within  a  mile  of  any  human 
abode.  However,  he  stayed  dinner — and  over  the  Sunday. 

Shepherd.  Do  you  breed  poultry,  sir  ? — You  dinna  ?  Do't 
then.  You  hae  plenty  o'  bounds  within  five  yacre.  But 
mind  you,  big*  nae  regular  hen-house,  You'll  hae  bits  o' 
sheds,  nae  doubt,  ahint  the  house,  amang,  the  offishes,  and 
through  amang  the  grounds  ;  and  the  belts  o'  plantations  are 
no  very  wide,  nor  the  sherubberies  stravagin  awa  into  wild 
mountainous  regions  o'  heather,  whins,  and  breckans. 

North.  Your  imagination,  James,  is  magnificent,  even  in 
negatives.  But  is  all  this  poetry  about  hen-roosts  ? 

Shepherd.  Ay.  Let  the  creturs  mak  their  ain  nests 
where'er  they  like  pheasants,  or  patricks,  or  muirfowl. 
Their  flesh  will  be  the  sappier,  and  mair  highly  flavored  on 
the  board,  and  their  shape  and  plummage  beautifuller  far, 
strutting  about  at  liberty  among  your  suburbs.  Aboon  a* 
things,  for  the  love  o'  heevin,  nae  cavies !  f  I  can  never  help 
greeting,  half  in  anger  half  in  pity,  when  I  see  the  necks  o' 
some  half-a-score  forlorn  chuckies  jouking  out  and  in  the 
narrow  bars  o'  their  prison-house,  dabbing  at  daigh  and 
drummock.J  I  wonder  if  Mrs  Fry  ever  saw  sic  a  pitiful 
spectacle. 

North.    I  must  leave  the  feathers  to  my  females,  James. 

Shepherd.  Canna  you  be  an  overseer  ?  Let  the  hens  aye 
set  theirsels  ;  and  never  offer  to  tak  ony  notice  o'  the  dockers. 
They  canna  thole  being  looked  at  when  they  come  screech 
ing  out  frae  their  het  eggs,  a'  in  a  ever,  with  their  feathers 
tapsetowry,  and  howking  holes  in  the  yearth,  till  the  gravel 
gangs  down-through  and  aff  among  the  plummage  like  dew- 
draps,  and  now  scouring  aff  to  some  weel-kend  corner  for 
drink  and  victual. 

•  Big — build.  t  Caviet— hen-coops. 

I  Daigh  and  dmmmock—dovLgh  and  cold  porridge- 


12  Hogg  on  How-towdies. 

North.  You  amaze  me,  James.  You  are  opening  up  quite 
a  new  world  to  me.  The  mysteries  of  incubation  .  .  . 

Hogg.  Hae  a  regular  succession  o'  Clackins  frae  about 
the  mid  o'  March  till  the  end  o'  August,  and  never  de 
vour  aff  a  haill  clackin  at  ance.  Aye  keep  some  three  or 
four  pullets  for  eerocks,  or  for  devouring  through  the  winter; 
and  never  set  aboon  fourteen  eggs  to  ae  hen,  nor  indeed 
mair  than  a  dizzen,  unless  she  be  a  weel-feathered  mawsie,* 
and  broad  across  the  shoulders. 

North.  Why,  the  place  will  be  absolutely  overrun  with 
barn-door  fowl. 

Shepherd.  Barn-door  fowl !  Hoot  awa  !  You  maun  hae 
agreed  o'  gem- birds.  Nane  better  than  the  lady-legg'd  reds. 
1  ken  the  verra  gem-eggs  at  the  first  pree  frae  your  dunghill 
— a  different  as  a  pine-apple  and  fozy  turnip. 

North.  The  conversation  has  taken  an  unexpected  turn, 
my  dear  Shepherd.  I  had  intended  keeping  a  few  deer. 

Shepherd.  A  few  deevils  !  Na — na.  You  maun  gang  to 
the  Thane's ;  f  or  if  that  princely  chiel  be  in  Embro'  or 
Lunnon,  to  James  Laidlaw's  and  Watty  Bryden's,  in  Strath- 
glass,  if  you  want  deer.  Keep  you  to  the  how-towdies. 

North.  I  hope,  Mr.  Hogg,  you  will  bring  the  mistress  and 
the  weans  to  the  house-warming  ? 

Shepherd.  I'll  do  that,  and  mo'ny  mair  besides  them.  Whare 
the  deevil's  Mr.  Tickler  ? 

North.  Off.  He  pretended  to  go  to  the  pump  for  an 
aquatic  supply,  but  he  long  ere  now  has  reached  South- 
Bide,  t 

*  An  easy-tempered,  somewhat  slovenly  female  is  called  in  Scotland  a 
mawsie. 

T  The  Thane  was  the  Earl  of  Fife,  whose  estates  in  Braemar  abound  in  red 
deer.  James  Laidlaw  and  Walter  Bryden  were  sheep  farmers  in  Strathglass. 
The  former  was  the  brother  of  William  Laidlaw,  Sir  Walter  Scott's  friend 
and  factor. 

$  Mr.  Kobert  Sym,  of  whom  Timothy  Tickler  was  in  some  respects  the 
eidolon,  resided  in  No.  20  George  Square,  on  the  south  side  of  Edinburgh. 


A  Song  by  the  Shepherd.  13 

Shepherd.  That's  maist  extraordinar.  I  could  hae  ta'enmy 
Bible  oath  that  I  kept  seeing  him  a'  this  time  sitting  right 
foreanent  me,  with  his  lang  legs  and  nose,  and  een  like 
daggers  ;  but  it  must  hae  been  ane  o'  Hibbert's  phantasms — 
an  idea  has  become  more  vivid  than  a  present  sensation.  Is 
that  philosophical  language  ?  What  took  him  aff  ?  I  could 
sit  for  ever.  Catch  me  breaking  up  the  conviviality  of  the 
company.  I'm  just  in  grand  spirits  the  nicht — come,  here's 
an  extempore  lilt. 

AlR,  "  Whistle,  and  Pll  come  to  ye,  my  lad." 
If  e'er  jou  would  be  a  brave  fellow,  young  man, 
Bewpre  of  the  Blue  and  the  Mellow,  *  young  man  ; 

If  ye  wud  be  strang, 

And  wish  to  write  lang, 

Come,  join  wi'  the  lads  that  get  Mellow,  young  man. 
Like  the  crack  o'  a  squib  that  has  fa'en  on,  young  man, 
Compared  wi'  the  roar  o'  a  cannon,  young  man, 

So  is  the  Whig's  blow 

To  the  pith  that's  below 
The  beard  o'  auld  Geordie  Buchanan,  t  young 


He-enter  TICKLER. 

Shepherd.  There's  Harry  Longleggs. 

Tickler.  I  felt  somewhat  hungry  so  long  after  supper,  and 
having  detected  a  round  of  beef  in  a  cupboard,  I  cut  off  a 
segment  of  a  circle,  and  have  been  making  myself  comfortable 
at  the  solitary  kitchen  fire. 

North  (rising).  Come  away,  my  young  friend.  Give  me 
your  arm,  James.  That  will  do,  Shepherd — softly,  slowly, 
my  dearest  Hogg — no  better  supporter  than  the  author  of 
the  Queen's  Wake. 

Shepherd.  What  a  gran'  ticker  is  Mr.  Ambrose's  clock  !  It 

•  The  "  Blue  and  the  Yellow  "  is  the  Edinburgh  Review. 
t  The  effigies  of  George  Buchanan  is  the  frontispiece  to  Blackwood's  Afaga- 
tine. 


14  Three  o'clock  a.  m. 

beats  like  the  strong,  regular  pulse  of  a  healthy  horse. 
Whirr  !  whirr  !  whirr  !  Hear  till  her  gi'eing  the  warning. 
I'll  just  finish  these  twa  half  tumblers  o'  porter,  and  the  wee 
drappie  in  the  bit  blue  noseless  juggy.  As  sure's  death,  it 
has  chapped  three.  The  lass  that  sits  up  at  the  Harrow  *'U 
hae  gane  to  the  garret,  and  how'll  I  get  in  ? 

(Sus  canit.) — O  let  me  in  this  ae  night, 
This  ae  ae  ae  night,  etc. 

With  a*  our  daffin,  we  are  as  sober  as  three  judges  with 
double  gowns. 

Tickler.  As  sober ! 

Mr.  AMBROSE  looks  out  in  his  nightcap,  wishing  good 
night  with  his  usual  suavity.  JSxeunt — TICKLER  in 
advance — and  NORTH  leaning  on  the  SHEPHERD. 


*  The  sign  of  the  hostelrie  near  the  Grassmarket  where  Hogg  resided  when 
In  Edinburgh. 


II. 

IN   WHICH  TICKLER   NARRATES  HTS  EXPERIENCES 
'  A  T  DALNA  CA  RDO  CH. 

North.  Let  us  have  some  sensible  conversation,  Timothy 
At  our  time  of  life  such  colloquy  is  becoming. 

Tickler.  Why  the  devil  would  you  not  come  to  Dalnacar- 
doch  ?  *  Glorious  guffawing  all  night,  and  immeasurable 
murder  all  day.  Twenty-seven  brace  of  birds,  nine  hares, 
three  roes,  and  a  red  deer  stained  the  heather  on  the  Twelfth, 
beneath  my  single-barrelled  Joe — not  to  mention  a  pair  of 
patriarchal  ravens,  and  the  Loch-Ericht  eagle,  whose  leg 
was  broken  by  the  Prince  when  hiding  in  the  moor  of 
Rannoch. 

North.  Why  kill  the  royal  bird  ? 

Tickler.  In  self-defence.  It  bore  down  upon  Sancho  like  a 
sunbeam  from  its  eyrie  on  the  cliff  of  Snows,  and  it  would 
have  broken  his  back  with  one  stroke  of  its  wing,  had  I  not 
sent  a  ball  right  through  its  heart.  It  went  up,  with  a  yell, 
a  hundred  fathom  into  the  clear  blue  air ;  and  then,  striking 
a  green  knoll  in  the  midst  of  the  heather,  bounded  down  the 
rocky  hill-side,  and  went  shivering  and  whizzing  along  the 
black  surface  of  a  tarn,  till  it  lay  motionless  in  a  huge  heap 
among  the  water  lilies. 

North.   Lost? 

Tickler.  I  stripped  instanter — six  feet  four  and  three-quar- 

*  A  shooting-quarter  in  the  highlands  of  Perthshire,  occupied  in  the  sum. 
mer  of  1825  by  some  friends  of  Professor  Wilson. 


16  Tickler  "  in  purls  naturalibus" 

ters  in  pur  is  naturalibus — and  out-Byroning  Byron,  shot  in 
twenty  seconds,  a  furlong  across  the  Fresh.  Grasping  the 
bird  of  Jove  in  my  right,  with  my  left  I  rowed  my  airy  state 
towards  the  spot  where  I  had  left  my  breeches  and  other 
habiliments.  Espying  a  trimmer,  I  seized  it  in  my  mouth, 
and  on  relanding  at  a  small  natural  pier,  as  I  hope  to  be 
shaved,  lo  !  a  pike  of  twenty -pound  standing,  with  a  jaw  like 
an  alligator,  and  reaching  from  my  hip  to  my  instep,  smote 
the  heather,  like  a  flail,  into  a  shower  of  blossoms. 

North.  Was  there  a  cloud  of  witnesses  ? 

Tickler.  To  be  sure  there  was.  A  hundred  stills  beheld 
me  from  the  mountain-sides.  Shepherd  and  smuggler  cheered 
me  like  voices  in  the  sky  ;  and  the  old  genius  of  the  solitary 
place  rustled  applause  through  the  reeds  and  rushes,  and 
birch-trees  among  the  rocks — paced  up  and  down  the  shore 
in  triumph  .  .  . 

North.  What  a  subject  for  the  painter!  *0h  that  Sir 
Thomas  Lawrence  *  or  our  own  John  Watson,  f  had  been 
there  to  put  you  on  canvas !  Or  shall  I  rather  say,  would 
that  Chantrey  had  been  by  to  study  you  for  immortal  mar 
ble  ! 

Tickler.  Braced  by  the  liquid  plunge,  I  circled  the  tarn  at 
ten  miles  an  hour.  Unconsciously  I  had  taken  my  Manton 
into  my  hand — and  unconsciously  reloaded — when,  just  as  I 
was  clearing  the  feeder-stream,  not  less  than  five  yards  across 
up  springs  a  red  deer,  who,  at  the  death  of  the  eagle,  had 
cowered  down  in  the  brake,  and  wafted  away  his  antlers  in 
the  direction  of  Benvoirlich.  We  were  both  going  at  the 
top  of  our  speed  when  I  fired,  and  the  ball  piercing  his  spine 
the  magnificent  creature  sunk  down,  and  died  almost  without 
a  convulsion. 

*  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  died  in  1830. 

t  Afterwards  Sir  John  Watson  Gordon,  President  of  the  Royal  Scottish 
Academy. 


Apollo  and  Daphne.  17 

North.  Red  deer,  eagle,  and  pike,  all  dead  as  mutton  ! 

Tickler.  I  sat  down  upon  the  forehead,  resting  an  arm  on 
each  antler — Sancho  sitting  with  victorious  eyes  on  the 
carcase.  I  sent  him  off  to  the  tarn-side  for  my  pocket-pistol, 
charged  with  Glenlivet  No.  5.  In  a  few  minutes  he  returned, 
and  crouched  down  with  an  air  of  mortification  at  my  feet. 

North.  Ho  !  ho  !  the  fairies  have  spirited  away  your  nether 
integuments! 

Tickler.  Not  an  article  to  be  seen ! — save  and  except  my 
shoes  ! — Jacket,  waistcoat,  flannel  shirt,  breeches,  all  melted 
away  with  the  mountain  dew  !  There  was  I  like  Adam  in 
Paradise,  or — 

"  Lady  of  the  Mere, 
Sole-sitting  by  the  shores  of  old  romance." 

North.  Did  not  the  dragon-flies  attack  you — the  winged 
ants — and  the  wasp  of  the  desert  ? 

Tickler.  A  figure  moved  along  the  horizon — a  female  figure 
— a  Light  and  Shadow  of  Celtic  Life — and,  as  I  am  a 
Christian,  I  beheld  my  buckskin  breeches  dangling  over  her 
shoulders.  I  neared  upon  the  chase,  but  saw  that  Malvina 
was  making  for  a  morass.  Whiz  went  a  ball  within  a  stride 
of  her  petticoats,  and  she  deflected  her  course  towards  a 
wood  on  the  right.  She  dropped  our  breeches.  I  literally 
leaped  into  them  ;  and,  like  Apollo  in  pursuit  of  Daphne, 
pursued  my  impetuous  career. 

North.  To  Diana  ! — to  Diana  ascends  the  virgin's  prayer ! 

Tickler.  Down  went,  one  after  the  other,  jacket,  waistcoat, 
flannel  shirt, — would  you  believe  it,  her  own  blue  linsey- 
woolsey  petticoat  !  Thus  lightened,  she  bounded  over  the 
little  knolls  like  a  barque  over  Sicilian  seas  ;  in  ten  minutes 
she  had  fairly  run  away  from  me  hull-down,  and  her  long 
yellow  hair,  streaming  like  a  pendant,  disappeared  in  the 
forest. 


18  Spoiling  the  Egyptians. 

North.  What  have  you  done  with  the  puir  lassie's  petti 
coat? 

Tickler.  I  sent  it  to  my  friend  Dr.  M'Culloch,  to  lie  among 
his  other  relics  ...  of  Highland  greed. 

North.  If  idle  folks  will  wander  over  the  Highlands,  and  get 
the  natives  to  show  them  how  to  follow  their  noses  through 
the  wildernesses,  ought  they  not  to  pay  handsomely  for  being 
saved  from  perdition,  in  bogs,  quagmires,  mosses,  shelving 
lake-shores,  fords  and  chasms  ? 

Tickler.  Undoubtedly  ;  and  if  the  orphan  son  of  some  old 
Celt,  who  perhaps  fought  under  Abercromby,  and  lost  his 
eyes  in  ophthalmia,  leave  his  ordinary  work  beside  his 
shieling,  be  it  what  it  may,  or  give  up  a  day's  sport  on  the 
hill  or  river  to  accompany  a  Sassenach*  some  thirty  miles 
over  the  moors,  with  his  big  nag,  too,  loaded  with  mineralogy 
and  botany,  and  all  other  matter  of  trash,  are  five  shillings, 
or  twice  five,  a  sufficient  remuneration  ?  Not  they,  indeed. 
Pay  him  like  a  post-chaise,  fifteenpence  a  mile,  and  send  him 
to  his  hut  rejoicing  through  a  whole  winter. 

North.  Spoken  like  a  gentleman.  So,  with  boats,  a  couple 
of  poor  fellows  live,  and  that  is  all,  by  rowing  waif  and  stray 
Sassenachs  over  lochs  or  arms  of  the  sea.  No  regular  ferry, 
mind  you.  Perhaps  days  and  weeks  pass  by  without  their 
boat  being  called  for — and  yet  grumble  and  growl  is  the  go 
as  soon  as  they  hold  out  a  hand  for  silver  or  gold.  Recollect, 
old  or  young  hunks,  that  you  are  on  a  tour  of  pleasure — that 
you  are  as  fat  as  a  barn-door  fowl  ;  and  these  two  boatmen 
— there  they  are  grinding  Gaelic — as  lean  as  laths  ; — what 
the  worse  will  you  be  of  being  cheated  a  little  ?  But  if  you 
grudge  a  guinea,  why,  go  round  by  the  head  of  the  loch,  and 
twenty  to  one  you  are  never  seen  again  in  this  world. 

Tickler.  The  Highlanders  are  far  from  being  extortioners. 

*  Sassenach — a  Lowlander  or  Englishman. 


G-rouse-Soup.  19 

An  extraordinary  price  must  be  paid  for  an  extraordinary 
service.  But,  oh  !  my  dear  North,  what  grouse-soup  at  Dal- 
nacardoch  !  You  smell  it  on  the  homeward  hill,  as  if  it  were 
exhaling  from  the  heather :  deeper  and  deeper  still,  as  you 
approach  the  beautiful  chimney  vomiting  forth  its  intermit 
ting  columns  of  cloud-like  peat-smoke,  that  melts  afar  over 
the  wilderness ! 

North.  Yes,  Tickler — it  was  Burke  that  vindicated  the 
claims  of  smells  to  the  character  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful. 

Tickler.  Yes,  yes !  Burke  it  was.  As  you  enter  the  inn, 
the  divine  afflatus  penetrates  your  soul.  When  up-stairs 
perhaps  in  the  garret,  adorning  for  dinner,  it  rises  like  a 
cloud  of  rich  distilled  perfumes  through  every  chink  on  the 
floor,  every  cranny  of  the  wall.  The  little  mouse  issues  from 
his  hole,  close  to  the  foot  of  the  bed-post,  and  raising  him 
self,  squirrel-like,  on  his  hinder-legs,  whets  his  tusks  with  his 
merry-paws  and  smooths  his  whiskers. 

North.   Shakespearean  ! 

Tickler.  There  we  are,  a  band  of  brothers  round  the  glorious 
tureen  !  Down  goes  the  ladle  into  "  a  profoundis  clamavi" 
and  up  floats  from  that  blessed  Erebus  a  dozen  cunningly 
resuscitated  spirits.  Old  cocks,  bitter  to  the  back-bone,  lov 
ingly  alternating  with  young  pouts,  whose  swelling  bosoms 
might  seduce  an  anchorite  ! 

North  (rising).  I  must  ring  for  supper,  Ambrose— Ambrose 
— Ambrose ! 

Tickler.  No  respect  of  persons  at  Dalnacardoch  !  I  plump 
them  into  the  plates  around  sans  selection.  No  matter  al 
though  the  soup  play  JAWP*  from  preses  to  croupier.  There 
too  sit  a  few  choice  spirits  of  pointers  round  the  board — Don 
— Jupiter — Sancho — "  and  the  rest" — with  steadfast  eyes 
and  dewy  chops,  patient  alike  of  heat,  cold,  thirst,  and  hun 

*  Jawp—  spalsh. 


20  Tickler's  Polggamy. 

ger — dogs  of  the  desert  indeed,  and  nose-led  by  unerring 
instinct  right  up  to  the  cowering  covey  in  the  heather  groves 
on  the  mountain-side. 

Nortfi.  Is  eagle  good  eating,  Timothy  ?  Pococke  the  tra 
veller  used  to  eat  lion  :  lion  pasty  is  excellent,  it  is  said— 
but  is  not  eagle  tough  ? 

Tickler.  Thigh  good,  devilled.  The  delight  of  the  High 
lands  is  in  the  Highland  feeling.  That  feeling  is  entirely 
destroyed  by  stages  and  regular  progression.  The  waterfalls 
do  not  tell  upon  sober  parties — it  is  tedious  in  the  extreme 
to  be  drenched  to  the  skin  along  high-roads — the  rattle  of 
wheels  blends  meanly  with  thunder — and  lightning  is  con 
temptible,  seen  from  the  window  of  a  glass  coach.  To  enjoy 
mist,  you  must  be  in  the  heart  of  it,  as  a  solitary  hunter, 
shooter,  or  angler.  Lightning  is  nothing  unless  a  thousand 
feet  below  you,*  and  the  live  thunder  must  be  heard  leap 
ing,  as  Byron  says,  from  mountain  to  mountain,  otherwise 
you  might  as  well  listen  to  a  mock  peal  from  the  pit  of  a 
theatre. 

North.  Pray,  Tickler,  have  you  read  Milton's  Treatise  on 
Christianity  ?f 

Tickler.  I  have ;  and  feel  disposed  to  agree  with  him  in 
his  doctrine  of  polygamy.  For  many  years  I  lived  very  com 
fortably  without  a  wife  ;  and  since  the  year  1820 1  have  been  a 
monogamist.  But  I  confess  that  there  is  a  sameness  in  that 
system.  I  should  like  much  to  try  polygamy  for  a  few  years. 
I  wish  Milton  had  explained  the  duties  of  a  polygamist ;  for 
it  is  possible  that  they  may  be  of  a  very  intricate,  compli- 

•  In  his  "  Address  to  a  Wild  Deer,"  Professor  Wilson  says  of  the  hunter  : 
"  'Tis  his,  hy  the  mouth  of  some  cavern  his  seat, 
The  lightning  of  heaven  to  hold  at  his  feet, 
"While  the  thunder  below  him  that  growls  from  the  cloud, 
To  him  comes  on  echo  more  awfully  loud." 

t  At  that  time  recently  discovered. 


Milton.  21 

cated,  and  unbounded  nature,  and  that  such  an  accumulation 
of  private  business  might  be  thrown  on  one's  hands  that  it 
could  not  be  in  the  power  of  an  elderly  gentleman  to  over 
take  it ;  occupied,  too  as  he  might  be,  as  in  my  own  case,  in 
contributing  to  the  Periodical  Literature  of  the  age. 

North.  Sir,  the  system  would  not  be  found  to  work  well 
in  this  climate.  Milton  was  a  great  poet,  but  a  bad  divine, 
and  a  miserable  politician. 

Tickler.  How  can  that  be  ? — Wordsworth  says  that  a  great 
poet  must  be  great  in  all  things. 

North.  Wordsworth  often  writes  like  an  idiot ;  and  never 
more  so  than  when  he  said  of  Milton,  "  His  s  ul  was  like  a 
star,  and  dwelt  apart !  "  For  it  dwelt  in  tumult,  and  mis 
chief,  and  rebellion.  Wordsworth  is,  in  all  things,  the  re 
verse  of  Milton — a  good  man  and  a  bad  poet. 

Tickler.  What ! — That  Wordsworth  whom  Maga  cries  up 
as  the  Prince  of  Poets  ? 

North.  Be  it  so ;  I  must  humor  the  fancies  of  some  of  my 
friends.  But  had  that  man  been  a  great  poet,  he  would  have 
produced  a  deep  and  lasting  impression  on  the  mind  of  Eng 
land  ;  whereas  his  verses  are  becoming  less  and  less  known 
every  day,  and  he  is,  in  good  truth,  already  one  of  the  illus 
trious  obscure. 

Tickler.  I  never  thought  him  more  than  a  very  ordinary 
man — with  some  imagination,  certainly,  but  with  no  grasp  of 
understanding,  and  apparently  little  acquainted  with  the  his 
tory  of  his  kind.  My  God  !  to  compare '  such  a  writer  with 
Scott  and  Byron  ! 

North.  And  yet,  with  his  creed,  what  might  not  a  great 
poet  have  done  ? — That  the  language  of  poetry  is  but  the 
language  of  strong  human  passion  ! — That  in  the  great 
elementary  principles  of  thought  and  feeling  common  to  all 
the  race,  the  subject-matter  of  poetry  is  to  be  sought  and 


22  The  Excursion. 

found ! — That  enjoyment  and  suffering,  as  they  wring  and 
crush,  or  expand  and  elevate,  men's  hearts,  are  the  sources 
of  song ! — And  what,  pray,  has  he  made  out  of  this  true  and 
philosophical  creed  ? — A  few  ballads  (pretty  at  the  best), 
two  or  three  moral  fables,  some  natural  description  of  scenery, 
and  half-a-dozen  narratives  of  common  distress  or  happiness. 
Not  one  single  character  has  he  created— not  one  incident— 
not  one  tragical  catastrophe.  He  has  thrown  no  light  on  man's 
estate  here  below ;  and  Crabbe,  with  all  his  defects,  stands 
immeasurably  above  Wordsworth  as  the  Poet  of  the  Poor. 

Tickler.  Good.  And  yet  the  youngsters,  in  that  absurd 
Magazine  of  yours,  set  him  up  to  the  stars  as  their  idol,  and 
kiss  his  very  feet,  as  if  the  toes  were  of  gold. 

North.  Well,  well ;  let  them  have  their  own  way  a  while. 
I  confess  that  the  "  Excursion  "  is  the  worst  poem,  of  any 
character,  in  the  English  language.  It  contains  about  two 
hundred  sonorous  lines,  some  of  which  appear  to  be  fine  even 
in  the  sense  as  well  as  in  the  sound.  The  remaining  seven 
thousand  three  hundred  are  quite  ineffectual.  Then,  what 
labor  the  builder  of  that  lofty  rhyme  must  have  undergone  ! 
It  is,  in  its  own  way,  a  small  Tower  of  Babel,  and  all  built 
by  a  single  man  ! 

Tickler.  Wipe  your  forehead,  North  ;  for  it  is  indeed  a 
most  perspiring  thought.  I  do  not  know  whether  my  gal 
lantry  blinds  me,but  I  prefer  much  of  the  female  to  the  male 
poetry  of  the  day. 

North.  O  thou  Polygamist ! 

Tickler.  And  what  the  devil  would  you  be  at  with  your 
great  bawling  He-Poets  from  the  Lakes,  who  go  round  and 
round  about,  strutting  upon  nothing,  like  so  many  turkey 
cocks,  gobbling  with  a  long  red  pendant  at  their  noses,  and 
frightening  away  the  fair  and  lovely  swans  as  they  glide 
down  the  waters  of  immortality  ? 


Scott's  Martial  Spirit.  23 

North.  Scott's  poetry  puzzles  me— it  is  often  very  bad. 

Tickler.  Very. 

North.  Except  when  his  martial  soul  is  up,  he  is  but  a 
tame  and  feeble  writer.  His  versification  in  general  flows 
on  easily — smoothly — almost  sonorously  ;  but  seldom  or  nev 
er  with  impetuosity  or  grandeur.  There  if  no  strength,  no 
felicity  in  his  diction — and  the  substance  of  his  poetry  is 
neither  rich  nor  rare. 

Tickler.  But  then,  when  his  martial  soul  is  up — and  up  it 
is  at  sight  of  a  spear-point  or  a  pennon — then  indeed  you 
hear  the  true  poet  of  chivalry.  What  care  I,  Kit,  for  all 
his  previous  drivelling — if  drivelling  it  be — and  God  forbid  1 
should  deny  drivelling  to  any  poet,  ancient  or  modern — for 
now  he  makes  my  very  soul  burn  within  me  ;  and,  coward 
and  civilian  though  I  be, — yes,  a  most  intense  and  insuperable 
coward,  prizing  life  and  limb  beyond  all  other  earthly  pos 
sessions,  and  loath  to  shed  one  single  drop  of  blood  either 
for  my  king  or  country, — yet  such  is  the  trumpet  power  of 
the  song  of  that  son  of  genius,  that  I  start  from  my  old 
elbow-chair,  up  with  the  poker,  tongs,  or  shovel,  no  matter 
which,  and  nourishing  it  round  my  head,  cry, — 

"  Charge,  Chester,  charge  !    On,  Stanley,  on  ! " 

and  then,  dropping  my  voice,  and  returning  to  my  padded 
bottom,  whisper, 

"  Were  the  last  words  of  Marmlon  t  " 

North.  Bravo — bravo — bravo  ! 

Tickler.  I  care  not  one  single  curse  for  all  the  criticism 
that  ever  was  canted,  or  decanted,  or  recanted.  Neither  does 
the  world.  The  world  takes  a  poet  as  it  finds  him,  and  seats 
him  above  or  below  the  salt.  The  world  is  as  obstinate  as  a 
million  mules,  and  will  not  turn  its  head  on  one  side  or 


24  Portrait  of  Wordsworth. 

another,  for  all  the  shouting  of  the  critical  population  that 
ever  was  shouted.  It  is  very  possible  that  the  world  is  a  bad 
judge.  Well,  then,  appeal  to  posterity,  and  be  hanged  to  you, 
and  posterity  will  affirm  the  judgment  with  costs. 

North.  How  you  can  jabber  away  so  in  such  a  temperature 
as  this  confounds  me.  You  are  indeed  a  singular  old  man. 

Tickler.  Therefore  I  say  that  Scott  is  a  Homer  of  a  poet, 
and  so  let  him  doze  when  he  has  a  mind  to  it ;  for  no  man  I 
know  is  better  entitled  to  an  occasional  half  canto  of  slumber. 

North.  Did  you  ever  meet  any  of  the  Lake  poets  in  private 
society  ? 

Tickler.  Five  or  six  times.  Wordsworth  has  a  grave 
solemn,  pedantic,  awkward,  out-of-the-worldish  look  about 
him,  that  rather  puzzles  you  as  to  his  probable  profession, 
till  he  begins  to  speak — and  then,  to  be  sure,  you  set  him 
down  at  once  for  a  Methodist  preacher. 

North.  I  have  seen  Chantrey's  bust. 

Tickler.  The  bust  flatters  his  head,  which  is  not  intellectual. 
The  forehead  is  narrow,  and  the  skull  altogether  too  scanty. 
Yet  the  baldness,  the  gravity,  and  the  composure  are  impres 
sive,  and,  on  the  whole,  not  unpoetical.  The  eyes  are  dim 
and  thoughtful,  and  a  certain  sweetness  of  smile  occasionally 
lightens  up  the  strong  lines  of  his  countenance  with  an  ex 
pression  of  courteousness  arid  philanthropy. 

North.  Is  he  not  extremely  eloquent  ? 

Tickler.  Far  from  it.  He  labors  like  a  whale  spouting — 
his  voice  is  wearisomely  monotonous — he  does  not  know 
when  to  have  done  with  a  subject — oracularly  announces  per 
petual  truisms — never  hits  the  nail  on  the  head — and  leaves 
you  amazed  with  all  that  needless  pother,  which  the  simple 
bard  opines  to  be  eloquence,  and  which  passes  for  such  with 
his  Cockney  idolaters,  and  his  catechumens  at  Ambleside  and 
Keswick. 


Modern  Conversation.  25 

North.  Not  during  dinner,  surely  ? 

Tickler.  Yes,  during  breakfast,  lunch,  dinner,  tea,  and 
supper, — every  intermediate  moment, — nor  have  I  any 
doubt  that  he  proses  all  night  long  in  his  sleep. 

North.  Shocking  indeed.  In  conversation,  the  exchange 
should  be  at  par.  That  is  the  grand  secret.  Nor  should 
any  Christian  ever  exceed  the  maximum  of  three  consecutive 
sentences — except  in  an  anecdote. 

Tickler.  O  merciful  heavens !  my  dear  North.  What 
eternal  talkers  most  men  are  now-a-days — all  at  it  in  a  party 
at  once — each  farthing  candle  anxious  to  shine  forth  with  its 
own  vile  wavering  wick — tremulously  apprehensive  of 
snuffers — and  stinking  away  after  expiration  in  the  socket !  * 

North.  Bad  enough  in  town,  but  worse,  far  worse,  in 
country  places. 

Tickler.  The  Burgeon  !  The  dominie !  The  old  minister's 
assistant  and  successor !  The  president  of  the  Speculative 
Society  !  Two  landscape  painters  !  The  rejected  contribu 
tor  to  Blackwood  !  The  agricultural  reporter  of  the  county ! 
The  surveyor !  Captain  Campbell !  The  Laird,  his  son  ! 
The  stranger  gentleman  on  a  tour  !  The  lecturer  on  an  or- 

*  Scott's  conversation  is  thus  elsewhere  described  : — 

"  Shepherd-  I  never  in  a'  my  born  dayi,  and  I'm  noo  just  the  age  o*  Sir 
Walter,  and,  had  he  been  leevin,  o'  Bonnypratt,  met  a  perfeckly  pleasant — 
that  is  a'thegither  enchaiitin  man  in  a  party — and  I  have  lang  thocht  there's 
nae  sic  thing  in  existence  as  poo'rs  o'  conversation.  There's  Sir  Walter  wi' 
his  everlastin  anecdotes,  nine  out  o'  ten  meanin  naething,  and  the  tenth 
it.sel  as  auld  as  the  Eildon  Hills.  Yet  I  lov«  and  venerate  Sir  Walter  aboon 
a'  ither  leevin  men  except  yoursel.  sir,  and  for  that  reason  try  to  thold  his  dis 
course.  As  to  his  ever  hearin  richt  ae  single  syllable  o'  what  ye  may  be  sayin 
to  him,  wi'  the  maist  freendly  intent  o'  enlichtenin  his  weak  mind,  you 
maun  never  indulge  ony  howp  o' that  kind— for  o' a'  the  absent  men  when 
anither's  speakin,  that  ever  glowered  in  a  body's  face,  without  seemin  token 
even  wha  he's  lookin  at,  Sir  Walter  is  the  foremost ;  and  gin  he  behaves  in 
that  gate  to  a  man  o'  original  genius  like  me,  you  may  conceive  his  treatment 
o'  the  sumphs  and  sumphesses  that  compose  fashionable  society". 


'26  Oblivion. 

rery  !  The  poet  about  to  publish  by  subscription !  The 
person  from  Pitkeathly  !  The  man  of  the  house  himself — 
my  God  !  his  wife  and  daughters  !  and  the  widow,  the  wi 
dow  !  I  can  no  more — the  widow,  the  widow,  the  widow  ! 
(Sinks  back  in  his  chair.) 

North.  I  have  heard  Coleridge.  That  man  is  entitled  to 
speak  on  till  Doomsday — or  rather  the  genius  within  him — 
for  he  is  inspired.  Wind  him  up,  and  away  he  goes,  dis 
coursing  most  excellent  music — without  a  discord — full,  am 
ple,  inexhaustible,  serious,  and  divine  ! 

Tickler.  Add  him  to  my  list,  and  the  band  of  instrument 
al  music  is  complete. 

North.  It  is  pleasant  to  know  how  immediately  every 
thing  said  or  done  in  this  world  is  forgotten.  Murder  a 
novel,or  a  man,  or  a  poem,or  a  child — forge  powers  of  attorney 
without  cessation  during  the  prime  of  life,till  old  maids  beyond 
all  computation  have  been  sold  unsuspectingly  out  of  the 
stocks  in  every  country  village  in  England — for  a  lustre 
furnish  Balaam  to  a  London  magazine  at  thirty  shillings  per 
bray, — in  short,  let  any  man  commit  any  enormity,  and  it  is 
forgotten  before  the  first  of  the  month !  Who  remembers 
anything  but  the  bare  names — and  these  indistinctly — of 
Thurtell,  and  Hunt,  and  Fauntleroy,  and  Hazlitt,  and  Tims, 
and  Soames,  and  Sotheran  ?  Soap-bubbles  all — blown, 
burst,  vanished,  and  forgotten. 

Tickler.  Why,  you  almost  venture  to  republish  Maga  her 
self  in  numbers,  under  the  smirk  of  a  New  Series.  I  know 
a  worthy  and  able  minister  of  our  church,  who  has  been 
preaching  (and  long  may  he  preach  it)  the  self -same  sermon 
for  upwards  of  forty  years.  About  the  year  1802  I  began  to 
suspect  him  ;  but  having  then  sat  below  him  only  for  some 
dozen  years  or  so,  I  could  not,  of  course,  in  a  matter  of  so 
much  delicacy,  dare  trust  to  my  very  imperfect  memory 


A  Veteran  Sermon.  27 

During  the  Whig  ministry  of  1806,  my  attention  was  strong 
ly  riveted  to  the  "  practical  illustrations,"  and  I  could  have 
sworn  to  the  last  twenty  minutes  of  his  discourse,  as  to  the 
voice  of  a  friend  familiar  in  early  youth.  About  the  time 
your  Magazine  first  dawned  on  the  world,  my  belief  of  its 
identity  extended  to  the  whole  discourse  ;  and  the  good  old 
man  himself,  in  the  delight  of  his  heart,  confessed  to  me  the 
truth  a  few  Sabbaths  after  the  Chaldee. 

North.  Coine,  now,  tell  me  truth — have  you  ever  palmed 
off  any  part  of  it  upon  me  in  the  shape  of  an  article  ? 

Tickler.  Never,  'pon  honor ;  but  you  shall  get  the  whole 
of  it  some  day,  as  a  Number  One ;  for,  now  that  he  has  got 
an  assistant  and  successor,  the  sermon  is  seldom  employed, 
and  he  has  bequeathed  it  me  in  a  codicil  to  his  will. 

North.  I  cannot  imagine,  for  the  life  of  me,  what  Ambrose 
is  about.  Hush !  there  he  comes.  (Enter  AMBROSE.) 
What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  sir  ? 

Ambrose.  Unfold. 

(Folding-doors  thrown  open,  and  supper-table  is  shown. 

Tickler.  What  an  epergne  !  Art — art.  What  would  our 
friend  Bowles  say  to  that,  North  ?  "  Tadmore  thus,  and 
Syrian  Balbec  rose." — (  Trameunt  omnes.) 

SCENE  II. — The  Pitt  Saloon. 

North.  Hogg,  with  his  hair  powdered,  as  I  endure  I 
— God  bless  you,  James — how  are  you  all  at  Altrive  ? 

Shepherd.  All's  well — wool  up — nowte*  on  the  rise  — 
harvest  stacked  without  a  shower— potatoes  like  stones  in 
the  Meggat — turnips  like  cabbages,  and  cabbages  like  bal 
loons — bairns  brawly,  and  Mistress  bonnier  than  ever. — It  is 
quite  an  annus  mirabilis. 

Tickler.     James,   my  heart  warms  to  hear   your   voice. 

•  Nowte— cattle.  A  stream  near  Hogg'a  farm. 


28  H°99  °n  his  High-horse. 


That  suit  of  black  becomes  you  extremely  —  you  would  make 
an  excellent  Moderator  of  the  General  Assembly.* 

Shepherd.  You  mistake  the  matter  entirely,  Tickler  ;  your 
eyesight  fails  you  ;  —  my  coat  is  a  dark  blue  —  waistcoat  and 
breeches  the  same  —  but  old  people  discern  objects  indistinct 
ly  by  candle-light,  or  I  shall  rather  say,  by  gas-light.  The 
radiance  is  beautiful. 

Tickler.  The  radiance  is  beautiful  ! 

Shepherd.  Why,  you  are  like  old  Polonius  in  the  play  !  I 
hate  an  echo  —  be  original  or  silent. 

Tickler.  James  ! 

Shepherd.  Mr.  Hogg,  if  you  please,  sir.  Why,  you  think 
because  I  am  good-natured,  that  you  and  North,  and  "  the 
rest,"  are  to  quiz  the  Shepherd  ?  Be  it  so  —  no  objections  — 
but  hearken  to  me,  Mr.  Tickler,  my  name  will  be  remem 
bered  when  the  dust  of  oblivion  is  yard-deep  on  the  grave 
stone  of  the  whole  generation  of  Ticklers.  Who  are  you  — 
what  are  you  —  whence  are  you  —  whither  are  you  going,  and 
what  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself  ?  A  tall  fellow,  un 
doubtedly  —  but  Measure  for  Measure  is  the  comedy  in  which 
I  choose  to  act  to-night  —  so.  gentlemen,  be  civil  —  or  I  will 
join  the  party  at  Spinks'f  —  and  set  up  an  opposition  Maga 
zine,  that  .  .  . 

North.  This  is  most  extraordinary  behavior,  Mr.  Hogg  ; 
and  any  apology  .  .  . 

Shepherd.  I  forgive  you,  Mr.  North  —  but  ... 

North.  Come  —  come,  you  see  Tickler  is  much  affected. 

Shepherd.  So  am  I,  sir  —  but  is  it  to  be  endured  .  .  . 

Tickler.  Pardon  me,  James  ;  say  that  you  pardon  ine  —  at 
my  time  of  life  a  man  cannot  afford  to  lose  a  friend.  No, 
he  cannot  indeed. 

*  Of  the  Church  of  Scotland. 

t  Spinks'  Hotel,—  the  resort  (real  or  supposed)  of  opposition  literary  con- 

vivialists. 


He  descends.  29 

Shepherd.  Your  hand,  Mr.  Tickler.  But  I  will  not  be  the 
butt  of  any  company. 

North:  I  fear  some  insidious  enemy  has  been  poisoning  your 
ear,  James.  Never  has  any  one  of  us  ceased,  for  a  moment, 
to  respect  you,  or  to  hear  you  with  respect,  from  the  time 
that  you  wrote  the  Chaldee  Manuscript  .  .  . 

Shepherd.  Not  another  word — not  another  word — if  you 
love  me. 

North.  Have  the  Cockneys  been  bribing  you  to  desert  us, 
James  ? 

Shepherd.  The  Cockneys  !  Puir  misbegotten  deevils  !  (I 
maun  to  speak  Scotch  again  now  that  I'm  in  good  humor.)  I 
would  rather  crack  nuts  for  a  haill  winter's  nicht  wi'  a  mon 
key,  than  drink  the  best  peck  o'  inawt  that  ever  was  brewed 
wi'  the  King  himsel'  o'  that  kintra. 

North.  I  understood  you  were  going  to  visit  London  this 
winter. 

Shepherd.  I  am.     But  I  shall  choose  my  ain  society  there, 

as  I  do  in  Embro'  and  Yarrow.  .  .  . 

• 
(Here  follows  the  Supper.) 

Tickler.  James,  you  are  the  worst  smoker  of  a  cigar  in 
Christendom.  No  occasion  to  blow  like  a  hippopotamus. 
Look  at  me  or  North — you  would  not  know  we  breathed. 

Shepherd.  It's  to  keep  inysel'  frae  fallin'  asleep.  Hear  till 
that  auld  watchman,  crawing  the  hour  like  a  bit  bantam. 
What's  the  cretur  screeching  ?  Twa  o'clock !  !  Mercy  me  I— 
we  maun  be  aff.  (Exeunt  omnes.) 


in. 

IN   THE    BLUE  PARLOR. 
NORTH. — SHEPHERD. — TICKLER. 

North.  Thank  heaven  for  winter  !  Would  that  it  lasted 
all  year  long  !  Spring  is  pretty  well  in  its  way,  with  budding 
branches  and  carolling  birds,  and  wimpling  burnies,  and  fleecy 
skies,  and  dew-like  showers  softening  and  brightening  the 
bosom  of  old  mother  earth.  Summer  is  not  much  amiss,  with 
umbrageous  woods,  glittering  atmosphere,  and  awakening 
thunderstorms.  Nor  let  me  libel  Autumn,  in  her  gorgeous 
bounty,  and  her  beautiful  decays.  But  Winter,  dear,  cold- 
handed  and  warm-hearted  Winter,  welcome  thou  to  my  fur-clad 
bosom  !  Thine  are  the  sharp,  short,  bracing,  invigorating 
days,  that  screw  up  muscle,  fibre,  and  nerve,  like  the  strings 
of  an  old  Cremona  discoursing  excellent  music — thine  the 
long  snow-silent  or  hail-rattling  nights,  with  earthly  firesides 
and  heavenly  luminaries,  for  home  comforts,  or  travelling 
imaginations,  for  undisturbed  imprisonment,  or  unbounded 
freedom,  for  the  affections  of  the  heart  and  the  flights  of  the 
soul!  Thine,  too — 

Shepherd.  Thine,  too,  skatin,  and  curlin,  and  grewin,*  and 
a*  sorts  o'  deevilry  amang  lads  and  lasses  at  rockins  and  kirns. 
Beef  and  greens !  Beef  and  greens !  Oh,  Mr.  North,  beef 
and  greens ! 

*  Grewin— coursing. 
30 


A  Plea  for  Winter.  31 

North.  Yes,  James,  I  sympathize  with  your  enthusiasm. 
Now,  and  now  only,  do  carrots  and  turnips  deserve  the  name. 
The  season  this  of  rumps  and  rounds.  Now  the  whole  nation 
sets  in  for  serious  eating — serious  and  substantial  eating, 
James,  half  leisure,  half  labor — the  table  loaded  with  a  lease 
of  life,  and  each  dish  a  year.  In  the  presence  of  that  Haggis 
I  feel  myself  immortal. 

Shepherd.  Butcher-meat,  though,  and  coals  are  likely,  let 
me  tell  you,  to  sell  at  a  perfec'  ransom  frae  Martinmas  to 
Michaelmas. 

North.  Paltry  thought.  Let  beeves  and  muttons  look  up, 
even  to  the  stars,  and  fuel  be  precious  as  at  the  Pole.  Another 
slice  of  the  slot,  James,  another  slice  of  the  stot — and,  Mr. 
Ambrose,  smash  that  half-ton  lump  of  black  diamond  till  the 
chimney  roar  and  radiate  like  Mount  Vesuvius. — Why  so 
glum,  Tickler  ? — why  so  glum  ? 

Tickler.  This  outrageous  merriment  grates  my  spirits.  I 
am  not  in  the  mood.  'Twill  be  a  severe  winter,  and  I  think 
of  the  poor. 

North.  Why  the  devil  think  of  the  poor  at  this  time  of 
day  ?  Are  not  wages  good,  and  work  plenty,  and  is  not 
charity  a  British  virtue  ? 

Shepherd.  I  never  heard  sic  even-doun  nonsense  in  a'  my 
born  days.  .  .  .  Mr.  Tickler,  there's  nae  occasion,  man,  to 
look  sae  doun-in-the-mouth — everybody  kens  ye're  a  man  o* 
genius,  without  your  pretending  to  be  melancholy. 

Tickler.  I  have  no  appetite,  James. 

Shepherd.  Nae  appeteet !  how  suld  ye  hae  an  appeteet  ?  A 
bowl  o'  Mollygo-tawny  soup,  wi'  bread  in  proportion — twa 
codlins  (wi'  maist  part  o'  a  labster  in  that  sass) — the  first  gash 
o'  the  jiget — stakes — then  I'm  maist  sure,  pallets,  and  finally 
guse — no  to  count  jeelies  and  coosturd,  and  bluemange,  and 
many  million  mites  in  that  Campsie  Stilton — better  than  ouy 


32  Tickler's  Appetite. 

English— a  pot  o'  draught — twa  long  shankers  o'  ale,  noos 
arid  thans  a  sip  o'  the  auld  port,  and  just  afore  grace  a  caulker 
o'  Glenlivet,  that  made  your  een  glower  and  water  in  your 
head  as  if  you  had  been  looking  at  Mrs.  Siddons  in  the  sleep 
walking  scene  in  Shakespeare's  tragedy  of  Macbeth — gin  ye 
had  an  appeteet  after  a'  that  destruction  o'  animal  and  vege 
table  matter,  your  maw  would  be  like  that  o'  Death  himsel, 
and  your  stamach  insatiable  as  the  grave 

Tickler.  Mr.  Ambrose,  no  laughter,  if  you  please,  sir. 

North.  Come,  come,  Tickler — had  Hogg  and  Heraclitus 
been  contemporaries,  it  would  have  saved  the  shedding  of  a 
world  of  tears. 

Shepherd.  Just  laugh  your  fill,  Mr.  Ambrose.  A  smile  is 
aye  becoming  that  honest  face  o'  yours.  But  I'll  no  be  sae 
wutty  again,  gin  I  can  help  it. 

(Exit  Mr.  AMBROSE  with  the  epergne. 

Tickler.  Mr.  Ambrose  understands  me.  It  does  my  heart 
good  to  know  when  his  arm  is  carefully  extended  over  my 
shoulder,  to  put  down  or  to  remove.  None  of  that  hurry-and- 
no-speed  waiter-like  hastiness  about  our  Ambrose  !  With  an 
ever  observant  eye  he  watches  the  goings-on  of  the  board,  like 
an  astronomer  watching  the  planetary  system.  He  knows 
when  a  plate  is  emptied  to  be  filled  no  more,  and  lo  !  it  is 
withdrawn  as  by  an  invisible  hand.  During  some  "  syncope 
and  solemn  pause  "  you  may  lay  down,  your  knife  and  fork 
and  wipe  your  brow,  nor  dread  the  evanishing  of  a  half- 
devoured  howtowdy ;  the  moment  your  eye  has  decided  on  a 
dish,  there  he  stands  plate  in  hand  in  a  twinkling  beside 
tongue  or  turkey  !  No  playing  at  cross  purposes — the  sheep's 
head  of  Mullion  usurping  the  place  of  the  kidneys  of 
O'Doherty.  The  most  perfect  confidence  reigns  round  the 
board.  The  possibility  of  mistake  is  felt  to  be  beyond  the 
fear  of  the  hungriest  imagination  ;  and  sooner  shall  one  of 


"  Hear  the  G-lenlivet !  "  33 

Jupiter's  satellites  forsake  his  orbit,  jostling  the  stars,  and 
wheeling  away  into  some  remoter  system,  than  our  Ambrose 
run  against  any  of  the  subordinates,  or  leave  the  room  while 
North  is  in  his  chair. 

North.  Hear  the  Glenlivet ! — Hear  the  Glenlivet ! 

Shepherd.  No,  Mr.  North,  nane  o'  your  envious  attributions 
o'  ae  spirit  for  anither.  It's  the  soul  within  him  that  breaks 
out,  like  lightning  in  the  collied  *  night,  or  in  the  dwawm- 
like  f  silence  o'  a  glen  the  sudden  soun'  o'  a  trumpet. 

Tickler.  Give  me  your  hand,  James. 

Shepherd.  There,  noo — there,  noo  !  It's  aye  me  that's  said 
to  be  sae  fond  o'  flattery ;  and  yet  only  see  how  by  a  single 
word  o'  my  mouth  I  can  add  sax  inches  to  your  stature,  Mr. 
Tickler,  and  make  ye  girn  like  the  spirit  that  saluted  De 
Gama  at  the  Cape  o'  Storms. 

North.     Hear  the  Glenlivet ! — Hear  the  Glenlivet ! 

Shepherd.  Hush,  ye  haveril.  £  Give  up  a  speech  yoursel, 
Mr.  North,  and  then  see  who'll  cry,  "  Hear  the  Glenlivet ! 
— hear  the  Glenlivet !  "  then.  But  haud  your  tongues, 
baith  o'  you — dinna  stir  a  fit.  And  as  for  you,  Mr.  Tickler, 
howk  the  tow  out  o'  your  lug,  and  hear  till  a  sang. 

(The  SHEPHERD  sings  "The  brakens  wi'  me.") 

Tickler  (passing  his  hand  across  his  eyes).  "  I'm  never 
merry  when  I  hear  sweet  music." 

North.  Your  voice,  James,  absolutely  gets  mellower 
through  years.  Next  York  Festival  you  must  sing  a 
solo — "  Angels  ever  bright  and  fair,"  or  u  Farewell,  ye  lim 
pid  streams  and  floods." 

Shepherd.  I  was  at  the  last  York  Festival,  and  one 
day  1  was  in  the  chorus,  next  to  Grundy  of  Kirk-by-Lons 

*  «<  Like  Lightning  in  the  collied  night."— Midsummer  Night's    Dream 
Collied — blackened  as  with  coal, 
t  Dwawni-like — swoon-like, 
t  Havvril — a  c-hatteriny  half-witted  person. 


34  The  York  Musical  Festival. 

dale.  I  kent  my  mouth  was  wide  open,  but  I  never  heard  my 
ain  voice  in  the  magnificent  roar. 

North.  Describe — James — describe. 

Shepherd.  As  weel  describe  a  glorious  dream  of  the  seventh 
heaven.  Thousands  upon  thousands  o'  the  most  beautiful 
angels  sat  mute  and  still  in  the  Cathedral.  Weel  may  I  call 
them  angels,  although  a'  the  time  I  knew  them  to  be  frail, 
evanescent  creatures  o'  this  ever-changing  earth.  A  sort  o' 
paleness  was  on  their  faces,  ay,  even  on  the  faces  where  the 
blush-roses  o'  innocence  were  blooming  like  the  flowers  o' 
Paradise — for  a  shadow  came  ower  them  frae  the  awe  o'  their 
religious  hearts  that  beat  not,  but  were  cnamed  as  in  the  pres 
ence  of  their  Great  Maker.  All  eyne  were  fixed  in  a  sol 
emn  raised  gaze,  something  mournful-like  I  thocht,  but  it 
was  only  in  a  happiness  great  and  deep  as  the  calm  sea.  I 
saw — I  did  not  see  the  old  massy  pillars — now  I  seemed  to 
behold  the  roof  o'  the  Cathedral,  and  now  the  sky  o'  heaven, 
and  a  licht — I  had  maist  said  a  murmuring  licht,  for  there 
surely  was  a  faint  spirit-like  soun'  in  the  streams  o'  splen 
dor  that  came  through  the  high  Gothic  window,  left  shadows 
here  and  there  throughout  the  temple,  till  a'  at  ance  the  or 
gan  sounded,  and  I  could  have  fallen  down  on  my  knees. 

North.  Thank  you,  kindly,  James. 

Shepherd.  I  understand  the  hint,  sir.  Catch  me  harpin 
ower  lang  on  ae  string.  Yet  music's  a  subject  I  could  get 
geyan  *  tiresome  upon. 

North.  What  think  you,  James,  of  the  projected  Fish 
Company. 

Shepherd.  Just  everything  that's  gude.  I  never  look  at 
the  sea  without  lamenting  the  backward  state  of  its  agricul 
ture.  Were  every  eatable  land  animal  extinc',  the  human 
race  could  dine  and  soup  out  o'  the  ocean  till  a'  eternity. 

*  Geyan— rather. 


The  Peril  of  Luncheon.  35 

Tickler.  No  fish-sauce  equal  to  the  following  : — Ketchup 
— mustard — cayenne  pepper — butter  amalgamated  on  your 
plate  proprio  manu,  each  man  according  to  his  own  propor 
tions.  Yetholm  ketchup  made  by  the  gipsies.  Mushroom, 
for  ever — damn  walnuts. 

North.  I  care  little  about  what  I  eat  or  drink. 

Shepherd.  Lord  have  mercy  on  us — what  a  lee  !  There 
does  not,  at  this  blessed  moment,  breathe  on  the  earth's 
surface  ae  human  being  that  doesna  prefer  eating  and  drink 
ing  to  all  ither  pleasures  o'  body  and  sowl.*  This  is  the 
rule  :  Never  think  about  either  the  ane  or  the  ither  but  when 
you  are  at  the  board.  Then,  eat  and  drink  wi'  a'  your  pow 
ers — moral,  intellectual,  and  physical.  Say  little,  but  look 
freendly — tak  care  chiefly  o'  yoursel',  but  no,  if  you  can  help 
it,  to  the  utter  oblivion  o'  a'  ithers.  This  may  soun '  queer 
but  it's  gude  manners,  and  worth  a  Chesterfield.  Them  at 
the  twa  ends  o'  the  table  maun  just  reverse  that  rule — till 
ilka  body  has  been  twice  served — and  then  aff  at  'a  haun 
gallop. 

North.  What  think  ye  of  luncheons  ? 

Shepherd.  That  they  are  the  disturbers  o'  a'  earthly  hap 
piness.  I  daurna  trust  myseP  wi'  a  luncheon.  In  my  haims 
it  becomes  an  untimeous  denner — for  after  a  hantle  o'  cauld 
meat,  muirfowl  pies,  or  even  butter  and  bread,  what  reason 
able  cretur  can  be  ready  afore  gloamin  for  a  het  denner  ?  So 
when'er  I'm  betrayed  into  a  luncheon,  I  mak  it  a  luncheon 
wi'  a  vengeance ;  and  then  order  in  the  kettle,  and  finish  aff 
wi'  a  jug  or  twa,  just  the  same  as  gin  it  had  been  a  regular 
dinner  wi'  a  table-cloth.  Bewaur  the  tray. 

North.  A  few  anchovies,  such  as  I  used  to  enjoy  with  my 

*  "  Some  people,"  says  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  "  have  a  foolish  way  of 
uot  minding,  or  pretending  not  to  mind,  what  they  eat.  For  my  part,  I  mind 
my  belly  very  studiously,  and  very  carefully.  For  I  look  upon  it,  that  he  who 
does  not  mind  his  belly  will  hardly  mind  anything  else."  —  BOSWELL'S  Life, 
chap-  xvii. 


86  The  Mid-day  Hour. 

dear  Davy  at  the  corner,  act  as  a  whet,  I  confess,  and  noth 
ing  more. 

Shepherd.  I  never  can  eat  a  few  o'  onything,  even  ingans. 
Ance  I  begin,  I  maun  proceed  ;  and  I  devoor  them—ilka  ane 
being  the  last — till  my  een  are  sae  watery  that  I  think  it  is 
raining.  Break  not  upon  the  integrity  o'  time  atween  break 
fast  and  the  blessed  hour  o'  denner. 

North.  The  mid-day  hour  is  always,  to  my  imagination- 
the  most  delightful  hour  of  the  whole  Alphabet. 

Shepherd.  I  understaun.  During  that  hour — and  there  is 
nae  occasion  to  allow  difference  for  clocks,  for  in  nature 
every  object  is  a  dial — how  many  thousand  groups  are  col 
lected  a'  ower  Scotland,  and  a'  ower  the  face  o'  the  earth — 
for  in  every  clime  wondrously  the  same  are  the  great  lead 
ing  laws  o'  man's  necessities — under  bits  o'bonny  buddin  or 
leaffu'  hedgeraws,  some  bit  fragrant  and  fluttering  birk-tree, 
aneath  some  owerhanging  rock  in  the  desert,  or  by  some 
diamond  well  in  its  mossy  cave — breakin  their  bread  wi' 
thanksgiving,  and  eatin  with  the  clear  blood  o'  health  mean 
dering  in  the  heaven-blue  veins  o'  the  sweet  lassies,  while 
the  cool  airs  are  playing  amang  their  haflins-covered*  bosoms 
wi'  many  a  jeist  and  sang  atween,  and  aiblins  kisses  too,  at 
ance  dew  and  sunshine  to  the  peasant's  or  shepherd's  soul — 
then  up  again  wi'  lauchter  to  their  wark  amang  the  tedded 
grass,  or  the  corn-rigs  sae  bonny,  scenes  that  Robbie  Burns 
lo'ed  sae  weel  and  sang  sae  gloriously — and  the  whilk,  need 
I  fear  to  say't,  your  ain  Ettrick  Shepherd,  my  dear  fellows, 
has  sung  on  his  auld  border  harp,  a  sang  or  twa  that  may 
be  remembered  when  the  bard  that  wauk'd  them  is  i'  the 
mools,  and  "  at  his  feet  the  green-grass  turf  and  at  his  head 
a  stane." 

Tickler.  Come,  come,  James,  none  of  your  pathos — none 

*  Hajlins  covered — half-covered. 


What  is  pleasant  Conversation  ?  37 

of  your  pathos,  my  dear  James.  (  Looking  red  about  the 
eyes.} 

North.  We  were  talking  of  codlins.* 

Shepherd.  True,  Mr.  North,  but  folk  canna  be  aye  talkin 
o'  codlins,  ony  mair  than  aye  eatin  them;  and  the  great 
charm  o?  conversation  is  being  aff  on  ony  wind  that  blaws. 
Pleasant  conversation  between  friends  is  just  like  walking 
through  a  mountainous  kintra — at  every  glen-mouth  the 
wun'  blaws  frae  a  different  airtf — the  bit  bairnies  come 
tripping  alang  in  opposite  directions — noo  a  ,  harebell  scents 
the  air — noo  sweet  briar — noo  heather  bank — here  is  a  grue 
some  quagmire,  there  a  plat  o'  sheep-nibbled  grass,  smooth 
as  silk  and  green  as  emeralds — here  a  stony  region  of 
cinders  and  lava,  there  groves  o'  the  lady-fern  embowering 
the  sleeping  roe — here  the  hillside  in  its  own  various  dyes 
resplendent  as  the  rainbow,  and  there  woods  that  the  Druids 
would  have  worshipped — hark,  sound  sounding  in  the  awfu' 
sweetness  o'  evening  wi'  the  cushat's  sang,  and  the  deadened 
roar  o'  some  great  waterfa'  far  aff  in  the  very  centre  o'  the 
untrodden  forest.  A'  the  warks  o'  ootward  natur  are  sym 
bolical  o'  our  ain  immortal  souls.  Mr.  Tickler,  is't  not  just 
even  sae  ? 

Tickler.  Sheridan — Sheridan ;  what  was  Sheridan's  talk 
to  our  own  Shepherd's,  North  ? 

North.  A  few  quirks  and  cranks  studied  at  a  looking-glass t 
— puns  painfully  elaborated  with  pen  and  ink  for  extempo 
raneous  reply — bon-mots  generated  in  malice  prepense — witti 
cisms  jotted  down  in  short-hand  to  be  extended  when  he  had 
put  on  the  spur  of  the  occasion — the  drudgeries  of  memory 

*  Codlins — small  cod  ;  not  apples,  as  the  American  editor  supposes. 

t  Alrt— point  of  the  compass. 

t  How  carefully  Sheridan's  impromptus  were  prepared  beforehand  may  be 
learned  from  Moore's  Life  of  that  celebrated  wit,  just  published  at  the  date 
yf  this  number  of  the  Noctes. 


38  The  Shepherd's  Monkey. 

to  be  palmed  off  for  the  ebullitions  of  imagination — the 
coinage  of  the  counter  passed  for  currency  hot  from  the  mint 
of  fancy — squibs  and  crackers  ignited  and  exploded  by  a 
Merry-Andrew,  instead  of  the  lightnings  of  the  soul,  darting 
out  forked  or  sheeted  from  the  electrical  atmosphere  of  an 
inspired  genius. 

Shepherd.  I  wish  that  you  but  saw  my  monkey,  Mr.  North. 
He  would  make  you  hop  the  twig  in  a  guffaw.  I  hae  got  a 
pole  erected  for  him  o'  about  some  150  feet  high,  on  a  knowe 
ahint  Mount  Benger  ;  and  the  way  the  cretur  rins  up  to  the 
knob,  lookin  ower  the  shouther  o'  him,  and  twisting  his  tail 
roun'  the  pole  for  fear  o'  playin  thud  on  the  grun',  is  comical 
past  a'  endurance. 

North.  Think  you,  James,  that  he  is  a  link  ? 

Shepherd.  A  link  in  creation  ?  Not  he,  indeed.  He  is 
merely  a  monkey.  Only  to  see  him  on  his  observatory, 
beholding  the  sunrise  !  or  weeping,  like  a  Laker,  at  the 
beauty  o'  the  moon  and  stars  ! 

North.  Is  he  a  bit  of  a  poet  ? 

Shepherd.  Gin  he  could  but  speak  and  write,  there  can  be 
nae  manner  o'  doubt  that  he  would  be  a  gran'  poet.  Safe  us! 
what  een  in  the  head  o'  him  !  Wee,  clear,  red,  fiery,  watery, 
malignant-lookin  een,  fu'  o'  inspiration. 

Tickler.  You  should  have  him  stuffed. 

Shepherd.  Stuffed,  man  ?  say,  rather,  embalmed.  But  he's 
no  likely  to  dee  for  years  to  come — indeed,  the  cretur's 
engaged  to  be  married,  although  he's  no  in  the  secret  himseF, 
yet.  The  bawns*  are  published. 

Tickler.  Why,  really,  James ;  marriage,  I  tlr'nk,  ought  to 
be  simply  a  civil  contract. 

Shepherd.  A  civil  contract !  I  wuss  it  was.  But  oh !  Mr. 
Tickler,  to  see  the  cretur  sittin  wi'  a  pen  in's  hand,  and  pipe 

*  Bawns — banns. 


His  Accomplishments.  39 

in's  mouth,  jotting  down  a  sonnet,  or  odd,  or  lyrical  ballad  ! 
Sometimes  I  put  that  black  velvet  cap  ye  gied  me  on  his 
head,  and  ane  o'  the  bairn's  auld  big-coats  on  his  back ;  and 
then  sure  eneugh,  when  he  takes  his  stroll  in  the  avenue,  ho 
is  a  heathenish  Christian. 

North.  Why  James,  by  this  time  he  must  be  quite  like  one 
off  the  family  ? 

Shepherd.  He's  a  capital  flee  fisher.  I  never  saw  a  monkey 
throw  alighter  line  in  my  life.  But  he's  greedy  o'  the  gude 
linns,  and  canna  thole  to  see  onybody  else  gruppin  great  anes 
but  himseF.  He  accompanied  me  for  twa-three  days  in  the 
season  to  the  Trows,  up  aboon  Kelso  yonner ;  and  Kersse* 
allowed  that  he  worked  a  salmon  to  a  miracle.  Then,  for 
rowing  a  boat ! 

Tickler.  Why  don't  you  bring  him  to  Ambrose's  ? 
Shepherd.  He's  sae  bashfu'.     He  never  shines  in  company  ; 
and  the  least  thing  in  the  world  will  mak  him  blush. 

Tickler.  Have  you  seen  the  Sheffield  Iris,  containing  an 
account  of  the  feast  given  to  Montgomery!  the  poet,  his  long- 
winded  speech,  and  his  valedictory  address  to  the  world  as 
abdicating  editor  of  a  provincial  newspaper  ? 

Shepherd.  I  have  the  Iris — that  means  Rainbow — in  my 
pocket,  and  it  made  me  proud  to  see  sic  honors  conferred  on 
genius.  Lang-wunded  speech,  Mr.  Tickler  !  What !  would 
you  have  had  Montgomery  mumble  fwa-three  sentences,  and 
sit  down  again,  before  an  assemblage  o'  a  hundred  o'  the  most 
respectable  o'  his  fellow-townsmen,  with  Lord  Milton  at  their 
head,  a'  gathered  thegither  to  honor  with  heart  and  hand 
One  of  the  Sons  of  Song  ? 

North.  Right,  James,  right.     On  such  an  occasion,  Mont- 


*  Kersse,  a  celebrated  Kelso  salmon-fisher. 

t  James  Montgomery,  author  of   The  World  before  the   Flood,  and  other 
esteemed  poems,  was  born  in  1771,  and  died  in  1854. 


40  The  Night  of  Trafalgar. 

gomery  was  not  only  entitled,  but  bound  to  speak  of  himself 
— and  by  so  doing  he  "  has  graced  his  cause."  Meanwhile 
let  us  drink  his  health  in  a  bumper. 

Shepherd.  Stop,stop,  my  jug's  done.  But  never  mind,  I'll 
drink't  in  pure  speerit.  (Bibunt  omnes.) 

Tickler.  Did  we  include  his  politics  ? 

Shepherd.  Faith,  I  believe  no.  Let's  tak  anither  bumper 
to  his  politics. 

North.  James,  do  you  know  what  you're  saying  ? — the  man 
is  a  Whig.  If  we  do  drink  his  politics,  let  it  be  in  empty 
glasses. 

Shepherd.  Na,  na.  I'll  drink  no  man's  health,  nor  yet  ony 
ither  thing,  out  o'  an  empty  glass.  My  political  principles 
are  so  well  known,  that  my  consistency  would  not  suffer  were 
I  to  drink  the  health  o'  the  great  Whig  leader,  Satan  himself ; 
besides,  James  Montgomery  is,  I  verily  believe,  a  true  patriot. 
Gin  he  thinks  himself  a  Whig,  he  has  nae  understanding 
whatever  o'  his  ain  character.  I'll  undertak  to  bring  out  the 
Toryism  that's  in  him  in  the  course  o'  a  single  Nodes.  Tory 
ism  is  an  innate  principle  o'  human  nature — Whiggism  but 
an  evil  habit.  O  sirs,  this  is  a  gran'  jug ! 

Tickler.  I  am  beginning  to  feel  rather  hungry. 

Shepherd.  I  hae  been  rather  sharp-set  even  sin'  Mr.  Ambrose 
took  awa  the  cheese. 

North.  Tis  the  night  of  the  21st  of  October — the  battle 
of  Trafalgar — Nelson's  death — the  greatest  of  all  England's 
heroes — 

"  His  march  was  o'er  the  mountain  wave, 
His  home  was  011  the  deep-" 

Nelson  not  only  destroyed  the  naval  power  of  all  the  enemies 
of  England,  but  he  made  our  naval  power  immortal.  Thank 
God,  he  died  at  sea. 

Tickler.  A  noble  creature  ;  his  very  failings  were  ocean- 
born. 


The  Spirit  of  the  Iliad.  41 

Shepherd.  Yes — a  cairn  to  his  memory  would  not  be  out 
of  place  even  at  the  head  of  the  most  inland  glen.  Not  a 
sea-mew  floats  up  into  our  green  solitudes  that  tells  not  of 
Nelson. 

North.  His  name  makes  me  proud  that  I  am  an  islander. 
No  continent  has  such  a  glory. 

Shepherd.  Look  out  o'  the  window — what  a  fleet  o'stars 
in  Heaven  !  Yon  is  the  Victory — a  hundred-gun  ship — I 
see  the  standard  of  England  flying  at  the  main.  The  bricht- 
est  luminary  o'  nicht  says  in  that  halo,  "  England  expects 
every  man  to  do  his  duty."  .  .  .  What  think  you  of  the  Iliad, 
Mr.  North? 

North.  The  great  occupation  of  the  power  of  man,  James, 
in  early  society,  is  to  make  war.  Of  course,  his  great  poet 
ry  will  be  that  which  celebrates  war.  The  mighty  races  of 
men,  and  their  mightiest  deeds,  are  represented  in  such  poet 
ry.  It  contains  "  the  glory  of  the  world  "  in  some  of  its 
noblest  ages.  Such  is  Homer.  The  whole  poem  of  Homer 
(the  Iliad}  is  war,  yet  not  much  of  the  whole  Iliad  is  fight 
ing  and  that,  with  some  exceptions,  not  the  most  interesting. 
If  we  consider  warlike  poetry  purely  as  breathing  the  spirit 
of  fighting,  the  fierce  ardor  of  combat,  we  fall  to  a  much 
lower  measure  of  human  conception.  Homer's  poem  is  in 
tellectual,  and  full  of  affections  ;  it  would  go  as  near  to  make 
a  philosopher  as  a  soldier.  I  should  say  that  war  appears 
as  the  business  of  Homer's  heroes,  not  often  a  matter  of  pure 
enjoyment.  One  would  conceive,  that  if  there  could  be 
found  anywhere  in  language  the  real  breathing  spirit  of  lust 
for  fight  which  is  in  some  nations,  there  would  be  concep« 
tions,  and  passion  of  blood-thirst,  which  are  not  in  Homer. 
There  are  flashes  of  it  in  JEschylus. 

Shepherd.  I  wish  to  heaven  I  could  read  Greek.  I'll 
begin  to-morrow. 


42  The  Glory  of  War. 

Tickler.  The  songs  of  Tyrtaeus  goading  into  battle  are  of 
that  kind,  and  their  class  is  evidently  not  a  high  one.  Far 
above  them  must  have  been  those  poems  of  the  ancient 
German  nations,  which  were  chanted  in  the  front  of  battle, 
reciting  the  acts  of  old  heroes  to  exalt  their  courage.  These, 
being  breathed  out  of  the  heart  of  passion  of  a  people,  must 
have  been  good.  The  spirit  of  fighting  was  there  involved 
with  all  their  most  ennobling  conceptions,  and  yet  was  mere 
ly  pugnacious. 

North.  The  Iliad  is  remarkable  among  military  poems  in 
this,  that,  being  all  about  war,  it  instils  no  passion  for  war. 
None  of  the  high  inspiring  motives  to  war  are  made  to 
kindle  the  heart.  In  fact,  the  cause  of  war  is  false  on  both 
sides.  But  there  is  a  glory  of  war,  like  the  splendor  of  sun 
shine,  resting  upon  and  enveloping  all. 

Shepherd.  I'm  beginning  to  get  a  little  clearer  in  the  up 
per  storey.  That  last  jug  was  a  poser.  How  feel  you 
gentlemen — do  you  think  you're  baith  quite  sober  ?  Our 
conversation  is  rather  beginning  to  get  a  little  heavy.  Tak 
a  mouthfu'.  (NORTH  quaffs.} 

Tickler.  North,  you  look  as  if  you  were  taking  an  observa 
tion.  Have  you  discovered  any  new  comet? 

North  (standing  up}.  Friends — countrymen  — and  Romans 
— lend  me  your  ears.  You  say,  James,  that  that's  a  gran' 
jug ;  well  then,  out  with  the  ladle,  and  push  about  the  jorum. 
No  speech — no  speech — for  my  heart  is  big.  This  may  be 
our  last  meeting  in  the  Blue  Parlor.  Our  next  meeting 
in 

AMBROSE'S  HOTEL,  PICARDY  PLACE  I  * 


*  At  this  time  Ambrose  was  about  to  shift  his  sign  from  Gabriel's  Road,  at 
the  back  of  Princes  Street,  to  a  large  tenement  in  Picardy  Place,  facing 
the  head  of  Leith  Walk.  It  will  be  seen,  in  the  next  Noctes,  that  the  party 
again  met  in  the  old,  "  Blue  Parlor"  in  Gabriel's  Road. 


Farewell  to  the  Blue  Parlor.  43 

(  NORTH  suddenly  sits  down ;  TICKLER  and  the   SHEPHERD 
in  a  moment  are  at  his  side.) 

Tickler.  My  beloved  Christopher,  here  is  my  sinelling-bottle 
(Puts  the  vinaigrette  to  his  aquiline  nose.) 

Shepherd.  My  beloved  Christopher,  here  is  my  smelling- 
bottle.  (Pnts  the  stately  oblong  Glenlivet  crystal  to  his  lips.) 

North  (opening  his  eyes).  What  flowers  are  those  ?  Roses- 
mignonette,  bathed  in  aromatic  dew  ! 

Shepherd.  Yes  ;  in  romantic  dew — mountain  dew,  my  re 
spected  sir,  that  could  give  scent  to  a  sybo.* 

Tickler.  James,  let  us  support  him  into  the  open  air. 

North.  Somewhat  too  much  of  this.  It  is  beautiful  moon 
light.  Let  us  take  an  arm-in-arm  stroll  round  the  ramparts 
of  the  Calton  Hill. 

(  Enter  Mr.  AMBROSE,  much  affected,  with  NORTH'S 
dreadnought  ;  NORTH  whispers  in  his  ear,  Subridena 
olli ;  Mr.  AMBROSE  looks  cheerful,  et  exeunt  omnes. 


IV. 

IN  WHICH  THE  SHEPHERD  USURPS   THE  EDITORIAL 
CHAIR. 

Blue  Parlor. — SHEPHERD  and  TICKLER. 

Shepherd.  I  had  nae  heart  for't,  Mr.  Tickler,  I  had  nae 
heart  for't.  Ton's  a  grand  hotel  in  Picardy  —  and  there  can 
be  nae  manner  o'  doubt  that  Mr.  Ambrose  '11  succeed  in  it. 
Yon  big  letters  facing  doun  Leith  Walk  will  be  sure  to  catch 
the  een  o'  a'  the  passengers  by  London  smacks  and  steam 
boats,  to  say  naetking  o'  the  mair  stationary  land  population. 
Besides,  the  character  o'  the  man  himself,  sae  douce,  civil, 
and  judicious.  But  skill  part  from  my  right  hand  when  I 
forget  Gabriel's  Road.  Draw  in  your  chair,  sir. 

Tickler.  I  wish  the  world,  James,  would  stand  still  for 
some  dozen  years; — till  I  am  at  rest.  It  seems  as  if  the  very 
earth  itself  were  undergoing  a  vital  change.  Nothing  is 
unalterable  except  the  heaven  above  my  head — and  even  it, 
James,  is  hardly,  methinks  at  times,  the  same  as  in  former 
days  or  nights.  There  is  not  much  difference  in  the  clouds, 
James,  but  the  blue  sky,  I  must  confess,  is  not  quite  so  very, 
very  blue  as  it  was  sixty  years  since  ;  and  the  sun,  although 
still  a  glorious  luminary,  has  lost  a  leetle — just  a  leetle — 
of  his  lustre.  But  it  is  the  streets,  squares,  courts,  closes, 


The  Shepherd  is  confidential.  45 

— lands,  houses,  shops,  that  are  all  changed — gone — swept 
off — razed — buried. 

"  And  that  is  sure  a  reason  fair, 
To  fill  my  glass  again." 

Shepherd.  Ony  reason's  fair  enough  for  that.  Here's  to 
you,  sir — the  Hollands  in  this  house  is  aye  maist  excellent. 
...  Is  the  oysters  verra  gude  this  season  ?  I  shanna  stir 
frae  this  chair  till  I  hae  devoored  five  score  o'  them.  That's 
just  my  allowance  on  coming  in  frae  the  kintra. 

Tickler.  James,  that  is  a  most  superb  cloak.  Is  the  clasp 
pure  gold  ?  You  are  like  an  officer  of  hussars — like  one  of 
the  Prince's  Own.  Spurs  too,  I  protest ! 

Shepherd.  Sit  closer,  Mr.  Tickler,  sit  closer,  man ;  light 
your  cigar,  and  puff  away  like  a  steam-engine — though  ye, 
ken  I  just  detest  smokin  ; — for  I  hae  a  secret  to  communi 
cate — a  secret  o'  some  pith  and  moment,  Mr.  Tickler ;  and  I 
want  to  see  your  face  in  a'  the  strength  o'  its  maist  natural 
expression  when  I  am  lettin  you  intil't.  Fill  your  glass,  sir. 

Tickler.  Don't  tell  it  to  me,  James — don't  tell  it  to  me ; 
for  the  greatest  enjoyment  I  have  in  this  life  is  to  let  out  a 
secret — especially  if  it  has  been  confided  to  me  as  a  matter 
of  life  and  death. 

Shepherd.  I'll  rin  a'  hazards.  I  maun  out  wi't  to  you  ;  for 
1  hae  aye  had  the  most  profoun'  respect  for  your  abeelities, 
and  I  hae  a  pleasure  in  giein  you  the  start  o'  the  world  for 
four-and-twenty  hours. — I  am  noo  the  Yeditor  o'  Blackwood's 
Magazine. 

Tickler.  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us ! 

Shepherd.  Why,  you  see,  sir,  they  couldna  do  without  me. 
North's  getting  verra  auld — and,  between  you  and  me,  rather 
doited — crabbed  to  the  contributors,  and — come  hither  wi' 
your  lug — no  verra  ceevil  to  Ebony  himsel ;  so  out  comes 
letter  upon  letter  to  me,  in  Yarrow  yonder,  fu'  o'  the  maist 


46  The  Shepherd  in  the  Chair. 

magnificent  offers — indeed,  telling  ine  to  fix  my  ain  terms , 
and,  faith,  just  to  get  rid  o'  the  endless  fash  o'  letters  by  the 
carrier,  I  druve  into  toun  here,  in  the  Whusky,  through 
Peebles,  on  the  Saturday  o'  the  hard  frost,  and  that  same 
night  was  installed  into  the  Yeditorship  in  the  Sanctum 
Sanctorum. 

Tickler.  Well,  James,  all  that  Russian  affair  *  is  a  joke  to 
this.  Nicholas,  Constantino,  and  the  old  Mother-Empress 
may  go  to  the  devil  and  shake  themselves,  now  that  you,  my 
dear,  dear  Shepherd,  are  raised  to  the  Scottish  throne. 

Shepherd.  Wha  wad  hae  thocht  it,  Mr.  Tickler — wha  wad 
hae  thocht  it — that  day  when  I  first  entered  the  Grassmarket 
wi'  a'  my  flock  afore  me,  and  Hector  youf-youfm  round  the 
Gallow-Stane — where,  in  days  of  yore,  the  saints — 

Tickler.   Sire  ! 

Shepherd.  Nane  o'  your  mocking — I'm  the  Editor  ;  and,  to 
prove't,  I'll  order  in — the  Balaam-box. 

Tickler.  James,  as  you  love  me,  open  not  that  box. — Pan 
dora's  was  a  joke  to  it. 

Shepherd.  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  Mr.  Tickler,  you're  feared  that  I'll 
lay  my  haun  on  yane  o'  your  articles.  0  man,  but  you're  a 
vain  auld  chiel ;  just  a  bigot  to  your  ain  abeelities.  But 
hear  me,  sir ;  you  maun  compose  in  a  mair  classical  style 
gin  you  think  o'  continuing  a  contributor.  I  must  not  let 
down  the  character  of  the  work  to  flatter  a  few  feckless 
fumblers.  Mr.  Ambrose — Mr.  Ambrose — the  Balaam-box  I 
tell  you — I  hae  been  ringing  this  half-hour  for  the  Balaam- 
box. 

Mr.  Ambrose.  Here  is  the  safe,  sir.  I  observe  the  spider  is 
still  in  the  key-hole ;  but  as  Mr.  North,  God  bless  him,  told 

*  The  "  Russian  affair  "  was  the  declinature  by  Constantino  of  the  Russian 
sceptre,  in  favor  of  his  younger  brother  Nicholas,  who  died  on  the  2nd  of 
March,  1855. 


Tickler  is  appointed  Sub-Editor.  47 

me  not  to  disturb  him,  I  have  given  him  a  few  flies  daily  that 
I  found  in  an  old  bottle  ;  perhaps  he  will  get  out  of  the  way 
when  he  feels  the  key. 

Tickler.  James,  that  spider  awakens  in  my  mind  the  most 
agreeable  recollections. 

Shepherd.  Dang  your  speeders.  But,  Mr.  Ambrose,  where's 
the  Monthly  Budget? 

Mr.  Ambrose.   Here,  sir. 

Shepherd  (emptying  the  green  bag  on  the  table}.  Here,  Mr. 
Tickler.  Here's  a  sight  for  sair  een — materials  for  a  dizzen 
numbers.  Arrange  them  by  tens — that's  right ;  what  a 
show !  I'm  rich  aneuch  to  pay  aff  the  national  debt.  Let 
us  see — "  Absenteeism."  The  speeder  maun  be  disturbed — 
into  the  Balaam-box  must  this  article  go.  Gude  preserve  us, 
what  a  weight !  I  wonder  what  my  gude  auld  father  wad 
hae  said,  had  he  lived  to  see  the  day  when  it  became  a  great 
public  question  whether  it  was  better  or  waur  for  a  country 
that  she  should  hae  nae  inhabitants  !  .  .  .  What's  that  your 
glowering  on,  Sub  ? 

Tickler.  Sub? 

Shepherd.  Ay,  Sub.  I  create  you  Sub-yeditor  of  the 
Magazine.  You  maun  correc'  a'  the  Hebrew,  and  Chinese, 
and  German,  and  Dutch,  Greek  and  Latin,  and  French  and 
Spanish,  and  Itawlian.  You  maun  likewise  help  me  wi'  the 
pints,  and  in  kittle  words  look  after  the  spellin.  Noo  and 
then  ye  may  overhaul,  and  cut  down,  and  transmogrify  an 
article  that's  ower  lang,  or  ower  stupid  in  pairts,  putting 
some  smeddum  *  in't,  and  soomin  a'  up  wi'  a  soundin  pero 
ration.  North  had  nae  equal  at  that ;  and  I  hae  kent  him 
turn  out  o'  his  hands  a  short,  pithy,  biting  article,  frae  a  long 
lank,  lumbering  rigmarole,  taken,  at  a  pinch,  out  the  verra 
Balaam-box.  The  author  wondered  at  his  ain  genius  and 

*  Smeddum— spirit. 


48  The  Monthly  Budget. 

erudition  when  he  read  it,  and  wad  gang  for  a  week  after  up 
and  down  the  town,  asking  everybody  he  met  if  they  had 
read  his  leading-article  in  Ebony.  The  sumph  thocht  he  had 
written  it  himsel !  I  can  never  hope  to  equal  Mr.  North  in 
that  faculty,  which  in  him  is  a  gift  o'  nature ;  but  in  a 
things  else  I  am  his  equal, — and  in  some,  diuna  ye  think  sae 
his  superior  ? 

Tickler.  I  do.  There  seems  to  me  something  pretty  in  this 
little  son^.  To  do  it  justice,  I  must  sing  it.  (Sings.) 

"  Oh  !  often  on  the  mountain's  side 

I've  sung  with  all  a  shepherd's  pride, 

And  Yarrow,  as  he  roll'd  along, 

Bore  down  the  burden  of  the  song. 

A  shepherd's  life's  the  life  for  me 
He  tends  his  flock  so  merrily, — 
He  sings  his  song,  and  tells  his  tale,  * 
And  is  beloved  through  all  the  vale." 

Shepherd.  Tut,  tut ! — it's  wersh  f — wersh  as  a  potauto  with 
out  saut.  The  writer  o'  that  sang  never  wore  a  plaid.  What 
for  will  clever  chaps,  wi'  a  classical  education,  aye  be  writin 
awa  at  sangs  about  us  shepherds  ?  Havers  !  $  Let  Burns,  and 
me,  and  Allan  Cunningham  talk  o'  kintra  matters  under  our 
am  charge.  We'll  put  mair  real  life  and  love  into  ae  line — 
aiblins  into  a  word — than  a'  the  classical  callants  that  ever 
were  at  college. 

Tickler.  Well,  well — here's  a  poem  that  may  as  well  go  into 
the  fire-heap  at  once,  without  further  inspection. 

Shepherd.  For  God's  sake,  haud  your  hand,  Mr.  Tickler  ! — 
dinna  burn  that,  as  you  houp  to  be  saved  !  It's  my  ain  haun- 
writin — I  ken't  at  a'  this  distance — I'll  swear  till't  in  a  court 
o'  justice !  Burn  that,  and  you're  my  Sub  nae  langer. 

*  Tells  his  tale.  Milton  in  I' Allegro,  uses  this  expression  as  a  synonym 
for  "counts  his  flock;"  here,  by  a  singular  misapprehension,  the  words 
eoem  to  be  used  literally  in  the  sense  of  "  tells  his  xtory !  " 

t  Wersh — insipid.  t  Ilaccrs — jargon. 


TJie  Shepherd  objects  to  "  James.'"  49 

Tickler.  My  dear  Editor,  I  will  sing  it. 

Shepherd.  Na,  you  shanna  sing't — I'll  sing't  mysel,  though 
I'm  as  hoarse  as  a  craw.  Breathin  that  easterly  harr  is  as 
bad  as  snooking  down  into  your  hawse  sue  many  yards  o' 
woollen.  Howsomever,  I'll  try.  And  mind,  nane  o'  your 
accompaniments  wi'  me,  either  o'  fiddle  or  vice.  A  second's 
a  thing  that  I  just  perfectly  abhor, — it  seems  to  me — though 
I  hae  as  gude  an  ear  as  Miss  Stephens*  hersel — and  better, 
too — to  be  twa  different  tunes  sang  at  ae  time — a  maist 
intolerable  practice.  Mercy  me !  It's  the  twa  Epithaliums 
that  I  wrote  for  the  young  Duke  o'  Buccleuch's  birthday, 
held  at  Selkirk  the  25th  of  November,  182o.f  (sings.) 

Rejoice,  ye  wan  and  wilder'd  glens, 
Ye  dowie  dells  o'  Yarrow. 

Tickler.  Beautiful,  James, quite  beautiful! 

Shepherd.  Mr.  Tickler,  I  think,  considering  all  things,— 
the  situation  I  now  occupy,  my  rank  in  society,  and  the 
respect  which  I  have  at  all  times  been  proud  to  show  you  and 
Mrs.  Tickler,  that  you  might  call  me  Mr.  Hogg,  or  Mr. 
Yeditor.  Why  always  James — simple  James  ? 

Tickler.  A  familiar  phrase,  full  of  affection.  I  insist  on 
being  called  Timothy. 

Shepherd.  Weel,  weel,  be  it  so  now  and  then.  But  as  a 
general  rule,  let  it  be  Mr.  Tickler — Mr.  Hogg,  or,  which  I 
would  prefer,  Mr.  Editor.  Depend  upon  it,  sir,  that  there  is 
great  advantage  to  social  intercourse  in  the  preservation  of 
those  mere  conversational  forms  by  which  "  table  talk"  is 
protected  from  degenerating  into  a  coarse  or  careless  familiar 
ity. 

Tickler.  Suppose  you  occasionally  call  me  "  Southside," 
and  that  I  call  you  "  Mount  Benger  " — 

*  Afterwards  the  Countess  of  Essex. 

t  Hogg's   munificent    landlord,  the  present  Duke  of  Buccleuch,  born  In 
1806. 


50  The  Health  of  Bucdeuch  ! 

Shepherd.  A  true  Scottish  fashion  that  of  calling  gentlemen 
by  the  names  of  their  estates.  Did  you  ever  see  the  young 
Duke  ?  You  nod,  Never  ! — He's  a  real  scion  of  the  old  tree. 
What  power  that  laddie  has  ower  human  happiness  ! — He  has 
a  kingdom,  and  never  had  a  king  more  loyal  subjects.  All 
his  thousands  o'  farmers  are  proud  o'  him  and  his  executors 
and  that  verra  pride  gies  them  a  higher  character.  The  clan 
must  not  disgrace  the  Chief.  The  "  Duke"  is  a  household 
word  all  over  that  Border — the  bairns  hear  it  every  day — 
and  it  links  us  thegither  in  a  sort  o'  brotherhood.  Curse  the 
Radicals,  who  would  be  for  destroying  the  old  aristocracy 
of  the  land  !  (Sings  the  second  Epithalium, — WAT  o'  Buc- 
CLEUCH.)  There's  a  sang  for  you,  Timothy.  My  blude's 
up.  I  bless  Heaven  I  am  a  Borderer.  Here's  the  Duke's 
health — here's  the  King's  health — here's  North's  health — 
here's  your  health — here's  my  ain  health — here's  Ebony's 
health — here's  Ambrose's  health — the  healths  o'  a'  the  con 
tributors  and  a'  the  subscribers.  That  was  a  wully-waught !  * 
I  haena  left  a  dribble  in  the  jug.  I  wuss  it  mayna  flee  to 
my  head — it's  a  half-mutchkin  jug. 

Tickler.  Your  eyes,  James,  are  shining  with  more  than 
their  usual  brilliancy.  But  here  it  goes.  (Drinks  his  jug.} 

Shepherd.  After  all,  what  blessing  is  in  this  world  like  a 
rational,  well  founded,  stedfast  friendship  between  twa  people 
that  hae  seen  some  little  o'  human  life — felt  some  little  o'  its 
troubles — kept  fast  hauld  o'  gude  character,  and  are  doing  a' 
they  can  for  the  benefit  o'  their  fellow-creatures  ?  The  Maga 
zine,  Mr.  Tickler,  is  a  mighty  engine,  and  it  behoves  me  to 
think  well  what  I  am  about  when  I  set.it  a-working. 

Tickler.  Try  the  anchovies.     I  forget  if  you  skate,  Hogg  ? 

Shepherd.  Yes,  like  a  flounder.  I  was  at  Duddingston  Loch 
on  the  great  day.  Twa  bands  of  music  kept  cheering  the 

*  Wully-  waught— large  draught. 


The  Loch  in  Winter.  51 

shade  of  King  Arthur  on  his  seat,  and  gave  a  martial 
character  to  the  festivities.  It  was  then,  for  the  first  time, 
that  I  mounted  my  cloak  and  spurs.  I  had  a  young  leddie, 
you  may  weel  guess  that,  on  ilka  arm  ;  and  it  was  pleasant  to 
feel  the  dear,  timorous  creturs  clinging  and  pressing  on  a 
body's  sides  every  time  their  taes  caught  a  bit  crunkle  on  the 
ice,  or  an  imbedded  chucky-stane.  I  thocht  that  between  the 
twa  they  wad  never  hae  gien  ower  till  they  had  pu'd  me 
doun  on  the  breid  o'  my  back.  The  muffs  were  just  amazing, 
and  the  furbelows  past  a'  enumeration.  It  was  quite  Polar. 
Then  a'  the  ten  thousand  people  (there  couldna  be  fewer)  were 
in  perpetual  motion.  Faith,  the  thermometer  made  them  do 
that,  for  it  was  some  fifty  below  zero.  I've  been  at  mony  a 
borispeil,  but  I  never  saw  such  a  congregation  on  the  ice 
afore.  Once  or  twice  it  cracked,  and  the  sound  was  fear 
some, — a  lang,  sullen  growl,  as  of  some  monster  starting  out 
o'  sleep,  and  raging  for  prey.  But  the  bits  o'  bairns  just 
leuch,  and  never  gied  ower  sliding  ;  and  the  leddies,  at  least 
my  twa,  just  gied  a  kind  o'  sab,  and  drew  in  their  breath,  as 
if  they  had  been  gaun  in  naked  to  the  dookin  on  a  cauld  day  ; 
and  the  mirth  and  merriment  were  rifer  than  ever.  Faith,  I 
did  make  a  dinner  at  the  Club-house. 

Tickler.  Did  you  skate,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  That  I  did,  Timothy — but  ken  you  hoo  ?  You 
will  have  seen  how  a'  the  newspapers  roosed  the  skatin  o'  an 
offisher,  that  they  said  lived  in  the  Castle.  Fools  ! — it  was 
me — naebody  but  me.  Ane  o'  my  twa  leddies  had  a  wig  in 
her  muff,  geyan  sair  curled  on  the  frontlet,  and  I  pat  it  on  the 
hair  o'  my  head.  I  then  drew  in  my  mouth,  puckered  my 
cheeks,  made  my  een  look  fierce,  hung  my  head  on  my  left 
shouther,  put  my  hat  to  the  one  side,  and  so,  arms  akimbo, 
off  I  went  in  a  figure  of  8,  garring  the  crowd  part  like  clouds, 
and  circumnavigating  the  frozen  ocean  in  the  space  of  about 


52  The  Shepherd  Skates. 

two  minutes.  "  The  curlers  quat  their  roaring  play,"  and 
every  tent  east  forth  its  inmates,  with  a  bap  in  the  ae  haun 
and  a  gill  in  the  ither,  to  behold  the  offisher  frae  the  Castle. 
The  only  fear  I  had  was  o'  my  long  spurs;  but  they  never 
got  fankled  ;  and  I  finished  with  doing  the  47th  Proposition 
of  Euclid  with  mathematical  precision. 

Tickler.  My  dear  Editor,  you  are  forgetting  the  articles. 
The  devil  will  be  here  for  copy.  .  .  . 

Shepherd.  Mr  Tickler,  here's  a  most  capital  article,  entitled 
"  Birds."  *  I  ken  his  pen  the  instant  I  see  the  scart  o't. 
Naebody  can  touch  aff  these  light,  airy,  buoyant,  heartsome 
articles  like  him.  Then  there's  aye  sic  a  fine  dash  o'  nature 
in  them — sic  nice  touches  o'  description — and,  every  now  and 
then,  a  bit  curious  and  peculiar  word — just  ae  word  and  nae 
mair,  that  lets  you  into  the  spirit  of  the  whole  design,  and 
makes  you  love  both  the  writer  and  written. — Square  down 
the  edges  with  the  paper-folder,  and  label  it  "  Leading 
Article." 

Tickler.  I  wish  he  was  here. 

Shepherd.  He's  better  where  he  is,  for  he's  a  triflin  creatur 
when  he  gets  a  bit  drink ;  and  then  the  tongue  o'  him  never 
lies. — Birds — Birds  ! — I  see  he  treats  only  o'  singing  birds  ; 
— he  maun  gie  us  afterhend  Birds  o'  Prey.  That's  a  grand 
subject  for  him.  Save  us  !  what  he  would  mak  o'  the  King 
o'  the  Vultures !  Of  course  he  would  breed  him  on  Imaus. 
His  flight  is  far,  and  he  fears  not  famine.  He  has  a  hideous 
head  of  his  own — fiend-like  eyes — nostrils  that  woo  the  murky 
air — and  beak  fit  to  dig  into  brain  and  heart.  Don't  forget 
Prometheus  and  his  liver.  Then  dream  of  being  sick  in  a 
desert  place,  and  of  seeing  the  Vulture-King  alight  within 
ten  yards  of  you — folding  up  his  wings  very  composedly — 

*  This  article,  written  by  Professor  Wilson,  appeared  in  Blaclcwood'8 
Magazine,  vol.  xix.  p.  105. 


The  Shepherd's  Dismay.  53 

and  then  coming  with  his  horrid  bald  scalp  close  to  your  ear, 
and  beginning  to  pick  rather  gently  at  your  face,  as  if  afraid 
to  find  you  alive.  You  groan — and  he  hobbles  away  with 
an  angry  shriek,  to  watch  you  die.  You  see  him  whetting 
his  beak  upon  a  stone,  and  gaping  wide  with  hunger  and 
thirst.  Horror  pierces  both  your  eyelashes  before  the  bird 
begins  to  scoop  ;  and  you  have  already  all  the  talons  of  both 
his  iron  feet  in  your  throat.  Your  heart's  blood  freezes ;  but 
notwithstanding  that,  by  and  by  he  will  suck  it  up  ;  and  after 
he  has  gorged  himself  till  he  cannot  fly,  but  falls  asleep  after 
dinner,  a  prodigious  flock  of  inferior  fierce  fowl  come  flying 
from  every  part  of  heaven,  and  gobble  up  the  fragments. 

Tickler.  A  poem — a  poem — a  poem  ! — quite  a  poem  ! 

Shepherd.  My  certes,  Mr.  Tickler,  here's  a  copy  of  verses 
that  Ambrose  has  dropped  that  are  quite  pat  to  the  subject. 
Hearken — here's  the  way  John  Kemble  used  to  read.  Stop 
— I'll  stand  up,  and  use  his  action  too,  and  mak  ray  face  as 
like  his  as  I  can  contrive.  There's  difference  o'  features,  but 
very  muckle  o'  the  same  expression.  (Recites.) 

"  Oh  to  be  free,  like  the  eagle  of  heaven." 

Tickler.  I  used  sometimes  to  think  that  North  gave  us  too 
little  poetry  in  the  Magazine.  Here's  a  little  attempt  of  my 
own,  Mr.  Editor — if  I  thought  it  could  pass  muster. 

Shepherd.  Ou  ay.  But  what  noise  is  that  ?  Do  you  hear 
ony  noise  in  the  lobby,  Mr.  Tickler  ?  Dot,  Dot,  Dot ! 
Dinna  you  hear't  ?  It's  awfu' !  This  way.  O  Lord !  it's 
Mr.  North,  it's  Mr.  North,  and  I  am  a  dead  man.  I  am 
gaun  to  be  deteckit  in  personating  the  Yeditor.  I'll  be  hang 
ed  for  forgery.  Wae's  me — wae's  me  !  Could  I  get  into 
that  press  ?  or  into  ane  o'  the  garde-du  -vins  o'  the  sideboard  ? 
Or  maun  I  loup  at  ance  ower  the  window,  and  be  dashed  to 
a  thousand  pieces  ? 


54  The  Editor  arrives. 

Tickler.  Compose  yourself,  James — compose  yourself. 
But  what  bam  is  this  you  have  been  playing  off  upon  me  ? 
I  thought  North  had  resigned,  and  that  you  were,  bond  fide, 
editor.  Arid  I  too  !  Am  not  I  your  Sub  ?  What  is  this, 
Mount  Benger  ?  * 

Shepherd.  A  sudden  thocht  strikes  me.  I'll  put  on  the 
wig,  and  be  the  offisher  frae  the  Castle.  Paint  my  ee-brees 
wi'  burned  cork — fast,  man,  fast — the  gouty  auld  deevil's  at 
the  door. 

Tickler.  That  will  do — on  with  your  cloak.  It  may  be 
said  of  you,  as  of  the  Palmer  in  Marmion — 

"  Ah  me  !  the  mother  that  you  bare, 
If  she  had  been  in  presence  there, 
In  cork'd  eyebrows  and  wig  so  fair, 
She  had  not  known  her  child." 

(Enter  NORTH). 

North.  Mr.  Tickler  !     Beg  pardon,  sir, — a  stranger. 

Tickler.  Allow  me  to  introduce  to  you  Major  Moggridge, 
of  the  Prince's  Own. 

North.  How  do  you  do,  Major? — I  am  happy  to  see  you. 
I  have  the  honor  of  ranking  some  of  my  best  friends  among 
the  military — and  who  has  not  heard  of  the  character  of 
your  regiment  ? 

The  Major  (very  short-sighted').  Na — how  do  you  do,  Mr. 
North  ?  'Pon  honor,  fresh  as  a  two-year-old.  Is  it,  indeed, 
the  redoubtable  Kit  that  I  see  before  me  ?  You  must  be 
come  a  member  of  the  United  Service  Club.  We  can't  do 
without  you.  You  served,  I  think,  in  the  American  War. 
Did  you  know  Fayette,  or  Washington,  or  Lee,  or  Arnold  ? 
What  sort  of  a  looking  fellow  was  Washington  ? 

North.  Why,  Major,  Washington  was  much  such  a  good- 

*  Hogg's  territorial  title,  from  the  name  of  his  farm. 


The  Shepherd  asserts  himself.  55 

looking  fellow  as  yourself,  making  allowance  for  difference 
in  dress — for  he  was  a  plain  man  in  his  apparel.  But  he  had 
the  same  heroic  expression  of  countenance — the  same  com 
manding  eye  and  bold  broad  forehead. 

The  Major.  He  didna  mak  as  muckle  use,  surely,  o'  the 
Scottish  dcealec  as  me  ? 

North.  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  I  have  heard  that 
voice  before — where  am  I  ?  Excuse  me,  sir,  but — but — why, 
Tickler  has  Hogg  a  cousin,  or  a  nephew,  or  a  son  in  the 
Hussars  ?  Major  Moggridge,  you  have  a  strong  resemblance 
to  one  of  our  most  celebrated  men,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd. 
Are  you  in  any  way  connected  with  the  ftoggs  ? 

Shepherd  (throwing  off  his  disguise} .  0  ye  Gawpus  !  Ye 
great  Gawpus  !  It's  me,  man — it's  me  !  Tuts,  man,  dinna 
lose  your  temper.  Dinna  you  think  I  would  mak  a  capital 
play-actor  ? 

North.  Why,  James,  men  at  my  time  of  life  are  averse  to 
such  waggeries. 

Shepherd.  Averse  to  waggeries!  You  averse  to  wag 
geries  ?  Then  let  us  a'  begin  saying  our  prayers,  for  the 
end  o'  the  world  is  at  hand.  Now  that's  just  the  way  baith 
wi'  you  and  Mr.  Tickler.  As  lang  as  you  get  a'  your  ain 
way,  and  think  you  hae  the  laugh  against  the  Shepherd,  a's 
richt — and  you  keckle,  and  you  craw,  and  you  fling  the  straw 
frae  ahint  the  heel  o'  you,  just  like  game-cocks  when  about 
to  gi'e  battle.  Vow,  but  you're  crouse  ;  *  but  sae  sune  as  I 
turn  the  tables  on  you,  gegg  you,  as  they  would  say  in 
Glasgow — turn  you  into  twa  asses,  and  make  you  wonder  if 
your  lugs  are  touching  the  ceiling — but  immediately  you  be 
gin  whimpering  about  your  age  and  infirmities — immediately 
you  baith  draw  up  your  mouths  as  if  you  had  been  eatin 
sourocks,  let  down  your  jaws  like  so  many  undertakers,  and 

*  Crouse — brisk  and  confident. 


56  A  General  Amnesty  proclaimed. 

propose  being  philosophical  !  Isna  that  the  truth,  the  whole 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth  ? 

North.  I  fear,  James,  you're  not  perfectly  sober. 

Shepherd.  If  I  am  fou,  sir,  it's  nae  been  at  your  expense. 
But,  howsomever,  here  I  am  ready  to  dispute  wi'  you  on  ony 
subject,  sacred  or  profane.  I'll  cowp  *  you  baith,  ane  after 
the  ither.  What  sail  it  be  ?  History,  Philosophy,  Theolo 
gy,  Poetry,  Political  Economy,  Oratory,  Criticism,  Jurispru 
dence,  Agriculture,  Commerce,  Manufactures,  Establishments 
in  Church  and  State,  Cookery,  Chemistry,  Mathematics — OR 
MY  MAGAZINE  ? 

North.  Your  Magazine  ? 

Shepherd  ( bursting  into  a  guffaw).  O  Mr.  North  !  O 
Mr.  North !  what  a  fule  I  hae  made  o'  Tickler.  I  made 
him  believe  that  I  was  the  Yeditor  o'  Blackwood 's  Magazine  ! 
The  coof  credited  it ;  and  gin  you  only  heard  hoo  he  abused 
you !  He  ca'd  you  the  Archbishop  of  Toledo. 

Tickler.  You  lie,  Hogg  ! 

Shepherd.  There's  manners  for  you,  Mr.  North.  Puir,  pas 
sionate  cretur,  I  pity  him,  when  I  think  o'  the  apology  he 
maun  mak  to  me  in  a'  the  newspapers. 

North.  No,  no,  my  good  Shepherd — be  pacified,  if  he  goes 
down  here  on  his  knees. 

Shepherd.  Stop  a  wee  while,  till  I  consider.  Na,  na ;  he 
maunna  gang  doun  on  his  knees — I  couldna  thole  to  see  that. 
Then,  I  was  wrang  in  saying  he  abused  you.  So  let  us  baith 
say  we  were  wrang,  preceesely  at  the  same  moment.  Gi'e 
the  signal,  Mr.  North. 

Tickler.          )       T     , 

Shepherd.       }      T  ask  Pard°n' 

North.  Let  us  embrace.     (  Triajuncta  in  uno.) 

Shepherd.  Hurra  !  hurra  !  hurra  ! — Noo  for  the  Powl- 
dowdies.f 

*tCowp — overthrow.  t  Powldowdies— oysters. 


V. 

IN  WHICH  THE  SHEPHERD  ROUTS  MILLION 
Blue  Parlor. — NORTH,  SHEPHERD,  TICKLER,  MULLION. 

Shepherd.  You  may  keep  wagging  that  tongue  o'  yours, 
Mr.  Tickler,  till  midsummer,  but  I'll  no  stir  a  foot  frae  my 
position,  that  the  London  University,  if  weel  schemed  and 
weel  conduckit,  will  be  a  blessing  to  the  nation.  It's  no  for 
me,  nor  the  like  o'  me,  to  utter  ae  single  syllable  against 
edication.  Take  the  good  and  the  bad  thegether,  but  let  a' 
ranks  hae  edication. 

Tickler.  All  ranks  cannot  have  education. 

Mullion.  I  agree  with  Mr.  Tickler, — 

"  A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing. 
Driiik  deep,  or  taste  not  the  Pierian  spring." 

Shepherd.  Oh,  man,  Mullion !  but  you're  a  great  gowk ! 
What  the  mair  dangerous  are  ye  wi'  your  little  learning  ? 
There's  no  a  mair  harmless  creature  than  yoursel,  man, 
amang  a'  the  contributors.  The  Pierian  spring  ?  What  ken 
ye  about  the  Pierian  spring  ?  Ye  never  douked  your  lugs  * 
intil't  I'm  sure.  Yet,  gin  it  were  onything  like  a  jug  o' 
whisky,  faith,  ye  wad  hae  drank  deep  aneuch — and  then, 
dangerous  or  no  dangerous,  ye  might  hae  been  lugged  awa 
to  the  Poleesh-office,  wi'  a  watchman  aneath  ilka  oxter, 
kickin  and  spurrin  a'  the  way,  like  a  pig  in  a  string.  Haud 

*  JDouked  your  lugs— plunged  your  ears. 

57 


58  Is  "  a  little  Learning  "  dangerous  ? 

your  tongue,  Mullion,  about  drinkin  deep,  and  the  Pierian 
spring. 

North.  James,  you  are  very  fierce  this  evening.  Mullion 
scarcely  deserved  such  treatment. 

Shepherd.  Fairce  ?  I'm  nae  mair  fairce  than  the  lave  o* 
ye.  A'  contributors  are  in  a  manner  fairce — but  I  canna 
thole  to  hear  nonsense  the  nicht.  Ye  may  just  as  weel  tell 
me  that  a  little  siller's  a  dangerous  thing.  Sae,  doubtless,  it 
is,  in  a  puir,  hard-working  duel's  pouch,  in  a  change-house 
on  a  Saturday  nicht — but  no  sae  dangerous  either  as  mair 
o't.  A  guinea's  mair  dangerous  than  a  shilling,  gin  you 
reason  in  that  gate.  It's  just  perfec  sophistry  a'thegether. 
In  like  manner,  you  micht  say  a  little  licht's  a  dangerous 
thing,  and  therefore  shut  up  the  only  bit  wunnock*  in  a 
poor  man's  house,  because  the  room  was  ower  sma'  for  a 
Venetian  !  Havers  !  havers  !  God's  blessings  are  aye  God's 
blessings,  though  they  come  in  sma's  and  driblets.  That's 
my  creed,  Mr.  North — and  it's  Mr.  Canning's  too,  I'm  glad 
to  see,  and  that  o'  a'  the  lave  o'  the  enlichtened  men  in  civil 
ized  Europe. 

Midlion.  Why,  as  to  Mr.  Canning — I  cannot  say  that  to 
his  opinion  on  that  subject  I  attach  much — 

Shepherd.  Hand  your  tongue,  ye  triflin  cretur — ye  maun 
hae  been  drinkin  at  some  o'  your  caird-clubs  afore  you  cam 
to  Awmrose's  the  nicht.  You're  unpleasant  aneuch  when  ye 
sleep,  and  snore,  and  draw  your  breath  through  a  wat  crinkly 
cough,  wi'  the  head  o'  ye  nid  noddin,  first  ower  your  back 
and  syne  ower  your  breast,  then  on  the  tae  shouther  and  then 
on  the  tither  ; — but  onything's  mair  preferable  than  yerk, 
yerkin  at  everything  said  by  a  wiser  man  than  yoursel — by 
me,  or  Mr.  Canning,  or  Mr.  North,  when  he  chooses  to 
illuminate. 

*  Wunnock — window. 


The  Shepherd  is  interrupted.  59 

Mullion.  What  will  Mr.  Canning  say  now  about  Parlia 
mentary  Reform,  after  that  oration  of  his  about  Turgot  and 
Galileo  ? 

Shepherd.  Turkey  and  Galilee !  What  care  I  about  such 
outlandish  realms  ?  Keep  to  the  point  at  issue,  sir, — the  ed- 
ication  o'  the  people  ;  and  if  Mr.  Canning  does  not  vote  wi' 
me  for  the  edication  o'  the  people,  confoun'  me  gin  he'll  be 
Secretary  o'  State  for  the  Hame  Department  anither  session 
o'  Parliament. 

Mullion.  The  Foreign  Department,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Hogg. 

Shepherd.  Oh,  man,  that's  just  like  you, — takin  haud  o' 
a  word,  as  if  ony  rational  ;~nan  would  draw  a  conclusion  frae  a 
misnomer  o'  a  word.  There's  nae  distinction  atween  Foreign 
and  Hame  Departments.  Gin  Mr.  Canning  didna  ken  the 
state  o'  our  am  kintra,  how  the  deevil,  man,  could  he  conduck 
the  haill  range  o'  international  policy  ? 

Tickler.     I  confess,  Mr.  Hogg,  that — 

Shepherd.  Nane  o'  your  confessions,  Mr.  Tickler,  to  me. 
I'm  no  a  Roman  priest.  Howsomever — beg  pardon  for  in 
terrupting  you.  What's  your  wull  ? 

Tickler.  I  confess  that  I  like  to  see  each  order  in  the 
State  keeping  in  its  own  place — following  its  own  pursuits — 
practising  its  own  virtues. 

Shepherd.  Noo,  noo,  Mr.  Tickler,  ye  ken  the  unfeigned 
respec  I  hae  for  a'  your  opinions  and  doctrines.  But  ye 
maunna  come  down  upon  the  Shepherd  wi'  your  generaleezin. 
As  for  orders  in  the  State,  how  mony  thousan'  o'  them  are 
there — and  wha  can  tell  what  is  best,  to  a  tittle,  for  ilka  ane 
o'  them  a'  in  a  free  kintra  ?  I've  read  in  beuks  that  there 
are  but  three  orders  in  the  State — the  higher,  the  middle,  and 
the  lower  orders.  Siccan  nonsense  ! 

Mullion.     The  best  authorities — 

Shepherd.     I'll    no    speak  anither  word  the    nicht,  if  that 


60  2  he  Shepherd  Resumes. 

creter  Mullion  keeps  interruptin  folk  wi'  that  nyaffing*  voice 
o'  him  in  that  gate.  I  say  there  are  at  least  three  thousand 
orders  in  the  State — ploughmen,  shepherds,  ministers,  squires, 
lords,  ladies,  auld  women,  virgins,  weavers,  smiths,  professors, 
tailors,  sodgers,  howdies,  bankers,  pedlars,  tinklers,  poets, 
editors,  contributors,  manufacturers,  annuitants,  grocers, 
drapers,  booksellers,  innkeepers,  advocates,  writers  to  the  W. 
S.,  grieves,  bagmen,  and  ten  hundred  thousand  million  forbye— 
and  wull  you,  Mr.  Tickler,  presume  to  tell  me  the  proper 
modicum  o'  edication  for  a'  these  Pagan  and  Christian  folk  ? 
Tickler.  Why,  James,  you  put  the  subject  in  a  somewhat 
new  point  of  view.  Go  on.  Mr.  Mullion,  if  you  please,  let 
us  hear  James. 

Shepherd.  I  hae  little  or  naething  to  say  upon  the  subject, 
Mr.  North — only  it  is  not  in  the  power  o'  ony  man  to  say 
what  quantum  o'  knowledge  ony  other  man,  be  his  station 
in  life  what  it  may,  ought  to  possess,  in  order  to  adorn  that 
station  and  discharge  its  duties.  Besides,  different  degrees  o' 
knowledge  must  belong  to  different  men  even  in  the  same 
station ;  and  I'm  sure  it's  no  you,  sir,  that  would  baud  clever 
cliiels  ignorant,  that  they  might  be  on  a  level  wi'  the  stupid 
anes  o'  their  ain  class.  Raise  as  high  as  you  can  the  clever 
chiels,  and  the  stupid  anes  will  gain  a  step  by  their  elevation. 

North.  James,  the  toothache,  wi'  his  venomed  staug,  has 
been  tormenting  me  all  this  evening.  Excuse  my  saying  but 
little  ;  but  I  am  quite  in  the  mood  for  listening,  and  I  never 
heard  you  much  better. 

Shepherd.  I'm  glad  o't.  What's  that,  sir,  you're  pittin 
into  your  mouth  ? 

North.  The  depilatory  of  Spain,  James,  a  sovereign  rem 
edy  for  the  toothache. 

*  Nyaffing — email  yelping. 


Mullion  s  Appeal.  61 

Shepherd.  Take  a  mouthfu'  o'  speerit,  and  keep  whurlin't 
aboot  in  your  mooth — dinna  spit  it  out,  but  ower  wi't— then 
anither,  and  anither,  and  anither — and  nae  mair  toothache  in 
your  stumps  than  in  a  fresh  stab  *  in  my  garden  paling. 

North.     James,  is  my  cheek  swelled  ? 

Shepherd.  Let's  tak  the  cawnel,  and  hae  a  right  vizy. 
Swalled  !  The  tae  side  o'  your  face,  man,  is  like  a  haggis, 
and  a'  the  colors  o'  the  rainbow.  We  maun  apply  leeches. 
I  daursay  Mrs.  Awmrose  has  a  dizzen  in  bottles  in  the  house 
— but  if  no,  I'll  rin  mysel  to  the  laboratory. 

North.  The  paroxysm  is  past.  Look  at  Tickler  and  Mullion 
yonder,  playing  at  backgammon. 

Shepherd.  Safe  us — sae  they  are !  Weel,  do  ye  ken,  I 
never  ance  heard  the  rattlin  o'  the  dice  the  haill  time  we 
were  speakin.  You  was  sae  enterteenin,  Mr.  North — sae  el 
oquent — sae  philosophical. 

Mullion.  That's  twa  ggems,  Mr.  Tickler.  Hurra,  hurra 
hurra ! 

Shepherd.  Od,  man,  Mullion,  to  hear  ye  hurrain  that  gate, 
ane  wad  think  ye  had  never  won  onything  a'  your  lifetime 
afore.  When  you  hae  been  coortin,  did  ye  never  hear  a  saft 
laigh  voice  saying,  "  Ou  ay"  ?  And  did  you  get  up,  and  wave 
your  haun  that  way  roun'  your  head,  and  cry,  Hurra,  hurra, 
hurra,  like  a  Don  Cossack  ? 

Mullion.  Do  not  cut  me  up  any  more  to-night,  James — let 
us  be  good  friends.  I  beg  pardon  for  snoring  yestreen — for 
give  me,  or  I  must  go — for  your  satire  is  terrible. 

Shepherd.  You're  a  capital  clever  chiel,  Mullion.  I  was 
just  tryin  to  see  what  effect  severity  o'  manner  and  sarcasm 
wud  hae  upon  you,  and  I'm  content  wi'  the  result  o'  the  ex 
periment.  You  see,  Mr.  North,  there's  Mullion — and  there's 
millions  o'  Mullions  in  the  warld — whenever  he  sees  me 

«  Stab— stake. 


62  Card-Playing  in  Ettrick. 

frichtened  for  him,  or  modest  like,  which  is  my  natural  dis 
position,  he  rins  in  upon  me  like  a  terrier  gaun  to  pu'  a  badger. 
That's  a'  I  get  by  actin  on  the  defensive.  Sometimes,  there 
fore,  as  just  noo,  I  change  my  tactics,  and  at  him  open-mouthed, 
tooth  and  nail,  down  wi'  him  and  worry  him,  as  if  I  were  a 
grew,*  and  him  a  bit  leveret.  That  keeps  him  quate  for  the 
rest  o'  the  nicht,  and  then  the  Shepherd  can  tak  his  swing 
without  let  or  interruption. 

Tickler.  I  have  not  lost  a  game  at  backgammon  these  five 
years  ! 

Shepherd.  What  a  lee  !  The  tailor  o'  Yarrow  Ford  dang 
ye  a'  to  bits,  baith  at  gammon  and  the  dambrod,  that  day  I 
grupped  the  sawmont  wi'  the  wee  midge-flee.  You  were  per 
fectly  black  in  the  face  wi'  anger  at  the  bodie — but  he  had 
real  scientific  genius  in  him  by  the  gift  o'  nature,  the  tailor  o' 
Yarrow  Ford,  and  could  rin  up  three  columns  o'  feegures  at 
a  time,  no  wi'  his  finger  on  the  sclate,  but  just  in  his  mind's 
ee,  like  George  Bidder,  or  the  American  laddie  Colburn. 

North.     Gaming  is  not  a  vice,  then,  in  the  country,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  As  for  young  folks — lads  and  lasses,  like — • 
when  the  gudeman  and  his  wife  are  gane  to  bed,  what's  the 
harm  in  a  ggem  at  cairds  ?  It's  a  cheerfu',  noisy  sicht  o'  com 
fort  and  confusion.  Sic  luckin  into  ane  anither's  hauns  !  Sic 
fause  shufflin !  Sic  unfair  dealin !  Sic  winkin  to  tell 
your  pairtner  that  ye  hae  the  king  or  the  ace  !  And  when 
that  wunna  do,  sic  kickin  o'  shins  and  treadin  on  taes  aneath 
the  table — aften  the  wrang  anes  !  Then  down  wi'  your  haun 
o'  cairds  in  a  clash  on  the  brod,  because  you've  ane  ower  few, 
and  the  coof  maun  lose  his  deal !  Then  what  gigglin  amang 
the  lasses  !  What  amicable,  nay,  love  quarrels  between  pairt- 
ners !  Jokin  and  jeestin,  and  tauntin,  and  toozlin — the  caw- 
nel  blawn  out,  and  the  soun'  o'  a  thousan'  kisses !  That's 

*  Grew— Greyhound 


Wolves  in  the  Forest.  63 

caird-playing  in  the  kintra,  Mr.  North  ;  and  whare's  the  man 
amang  ye  that  wull  daur  to  say  that  it's  no  a  pleasant  pastime 
o'a  winter's  nicht,  when  the  snaw  is  comin  doon  the  lum,  or 
the  speat's  roarin  amang  the  mirk  mountains  ? 

Midlion.  I  should  like  to  have  been  t'other  day  at  the 
shooting  of  the  elephant. 

Tickler.  Well,  I  should  not.  Elephant-feet  are  excellent. 
— Experto  crede  Roberto. 

Shepherd.  Tidbits  !  How  are  they  dressed,  Mr.  Tickler  ? 
Like  sheep's-head  and  trotters,  I  presume.  A  capital  dish 
for  a  Sabbath  dinner,  elephant  head  and  trotters.  How  mony 
could  dine  aff 't  ?  I'm  gettin  hungry — I've  a  great  likin  for 
wild  beasts.  Oh,  man !  gin  we  had  but  wolves  in  Scot 
land  ! 

Tickler.  Why,  they  would  make  you  shepherds  attend  a 
little  better  to  your  own  business.  How  could  you  visit  Ed 
inburgh  and  Ambrose,  if  there  were  wolves  in  the  forest? 

Shepherd.  I  wadna  grudge  a  score  o'  lambs  in  the  year — 
for  the  wolves  would  only  raise  the  price  o'  butcher's  meat — 
they  would  do  nae  harm  to  the  kintra.  What  grand  sport, 
houndin  the  wolves  in  singles,  or  pairs,  or  flocks,  up  yonder 
about  Loch  Skene! 

Tickler.     What  think  you  of  a  few  tigers,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  The  royal  Bengal  teegger  is  no  indigenous  in 
Scotland,  as  the  wolves  was  in  ancient  times ;  and  that's  ae 
reason  against  wushin  to  hae  him  amang  us.  Let  the  Alien 
Act  be  held  in  operation  against  him  and  may  he  never  be 
naturaleezed  ! 

Tickler.    What !  woul  you  be  afraid  of  a  tiger,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Would  I  be  afraid  o'  a  teegger,  Timothy  ?  No 
half  as  afeard  as  you  wad  be  yourself.  Faith,  I  wadna  grudge 
giein  a  jug  o'  toddy  to  see  ane  play  spang  upon  vou  frae  a 
distance  o'  twenty  yards,  and  wi'  a  single  pat  o'  his  paw  on 


64  North  and  the  Tiger. 

that  pow  o'  yours,  that  ye  hand  so  heigh,  fracture  youi 
skull,  dislocate  your  neck,  crack  your  spine,  and  gar  ye  play 
tapsalteerie  *  ower  a  precipice  into  a  jungle  where  the  teeg- 
ger  had  his  bloody  den. 

Tickler.  Would  you  give  no  assistance — lend  no  helping 
hand,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Ou  ay,  me  and  some  mair  wad  come  to  the 
place  in  a  week  or  twa,  when  we  were  sure  the  teegger  had 
changed  his  feedin'  grun',  and  wad  collec  the  banes  for  Chris 
tian  burial.  But  wad  you  be  afraid  o'  teeggers,  Timothy  ? 

North.  I  once  did  a  very  foolish  thing  in  the  East  Indies 
to  a  tiger.  I  was  out  shooting  snipes,  when  the  biggest  and 
brightest  royal  tiger  I  have  ever  faced  before  or  since  rose 
up  with  a  roar  like  thunder,  eyeing  me  with  fiery  eyes,  and 
tusks  half  a  foot  long,  and  a  tail  terrific  to  dwell  upon,  either 
in  memory  or  imagination. 

Shepherd.  I  didna  ken  there  had  been  snipes  in  the  East 
Indies  ? 

North.  Yes,  and  sepoys  likewise.  The  tiger  seemed,  after 
the  first  blush  of  the  business,  to  be  somewhat  disconcerted 
at  the  unexpected  presence  of  the  future  Editor  of  Black- 
wood 's  Magazine;  and,  in  a  much  more  temperate  growl, 
requested  a  parley.  I  hit  him  right  in  the  left  eye  with 
number  7,  and  the  distance  being  little  more  than  five  paces, 
it  acted  like  ball,  and  must  have  touched  the  brain — for  never 
surely  did  royal  tiger  demean  himself  with  less  dignity  or 
discretion.  He  threw  about  twenty  somersets,  one  after  the 
other,  without  intermission,  just  as  you  have  seen  a  tumbler 
upon  a  spring-board.  Meanwhile  I  reloaded  my  barrel,  and 
a  wild  peacock  starting  from  cover,  I  could  not  resist  the 
temptation,  but  gave  away  a  chance  against  the  tiger,  by  fir 
ing  both  barrels  successfully  against  the  Bird  of  Juno. 

*  Tapsalteerie — lieels-over-bead. 


Sport — is  it  cruel  ?  66 

Shepherd.  I've  heard  you  tell  that  story  a  thousan'  times, 
Mr.  North  ;  but  ye'll  pardon  me  for  sayin  noo,  what  I  only 
iook'd  before,  that  it's  a  downright  lee,  without  ae  word  o* 
truth  in't,  no  even  o'  exaggeration.  You  never  killed  a 
teegger  wi'  snipe-shot. 

North.  Never,  James — but  I  rendered  him  an  idiot  or  a 
madman  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  Much  evil  is  done  the  cause 
of  humanity  by  indiscriminate  and  illogical  abuse  of  pursuits 
or  recreations  totally  dissimilar.  I  doubt  if  any  person  can 
be  really  humane  in  heart  unless  really  sound  in  head.  You 
hear  people  talk  of  angling  as  cruel. 

Shepherd.  Fools — fools — waur  than  fools.  It's  a  maist 
innocent,  poetical,  moral,  and  religious  amusement.  Gia  I 
saw  a  fisher  gruppin  creelfu'  after  creelfu'  o'  trouts,  and  then 
flingin  them  a'  awa  among  the  heather  and  the  brackens  on 
his  way  hame,  I  micht  begin  to  suspec  that  the  idiot  was  by 
nature  rather  a  savage.  But  as  for  me,  I  send  presents  to 
my  freen's,  and  devour  dizzens  on  dizzens  every  week  in 
the  family — maistly  dune  in  the  pan,  wi'  plenty  o'  fresh 
butter  and  roun'  meal — sae  that  prevents  the  possibility 
o'  cruelty  in  my  fishin,  and  in  the  fishin  o'  a'  reasonable 
creatures. 

North.  It  seems  fox-hunting,  too,  is  cruel. 

Shepherd.  Ane  may  weel  lose  patience,  to  think  o'  fules 
being  sorry  for  the  death  o'  a  fox.  When  the  jowlers  te'ir 
him  to  pieces,  he  shows  fecht,  and  gangs  aff  in  a  snarl.  Hoo 
could  he  dee  mair  easier  ? — and  for  a'  the  gude  he  has  ever 
dune,  or  was  likely  to  do,  he  surely  had  leeved  lang  aneuch. 

North.  Did  you  never  use  pencil  or  brush,  James  ?  I  do 
not  remember  anything  of  yours,  "  by  an  Amateur,"  in  any 
of  our  Exhibitions. 

Shepherd.  I've  skarted  *  some  odds  and  ends  wi'  the  keeli- 

»  Skarted— scratched. 


66       .  The  Shepherd's  Landscapes. 

vine  on  brown  paper,  and  Mr.  Scroope  *  telt  Sir  Waltei 
they  showed  a  gran'  natural  genius.  I  fin'  maist  diffeeculty 
in  the  foreshort'nin  and  perspective.  Things  wunna  retire 
and  come  forrit  as  I  wush — and  the  back-grun'  will  be  the 
fore-grun*  whether  I  will  or  no.  Sometimes,  however,  I  dash 
the  distance  aff  wi'  a  lucky  stroke,  and  then  I  can  get  in  the 
sheep  or  cattle  in  front ;  and  the  sketch,  when  you  dinna 
stan'  ower  near,  has  a'  the  effect  o'  nature. 

North.  Do  you  work  after  Salvator  Rosa  or  Claude  Lor 
raine,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  I'm  just  as  original  in  paintin  as  in  poetry,  and 
follow  nae  master  !  I'm  partial  to  close  scenes — a  bit  neuk, 
wi'  a  big  mossy  stane,  aiblins  a  birk  tree,  a  burnie  maist 
dried  up,  a'  but  ae  deep  pool,  into  which  slides  a  thread  o' 
water  doun  a  rock — a  shepherd  readin — nae  ither  leevin 
thing — for  the  flock  are  ayont  the  knowes  and  up  amang 
the  green  hills  ; — ay,  anither  leevin  thing,  and  just  ane, — 
his  collie,  rowed  up  half-asleep,  wi'  a  pair  o'  lugs  that  still 
seem  listenin,  and  his  closin  een  towards  his  maister.  That's 
a  simple  matter,  sir,  but,  properly  disposed,  it  makes  a  bonny 
pictur. 

North.  I  should  have  thought  it  easier  to  "  dash  off  "  a 
wide  open  country  with  the  keelivine. 

Shepherd.  So  it  is.  I've  dune  a  moor — gin  you  saw't  you 
would  doubt  the  earth  being  roun',  there's  sic  an  extent  o' 
flat — and  then,  though  there's  nae  mountain-taps,  you  feel 
you're  on  tableland.  I  contrive  that  by  means  o'  the  cluds. 
You  never  beheld  stronger  bent — some  o'  the  stalks  thick  as 
your  arm — and  places  wi'  naething  but  stanes.  Here  and 
there  earth-chasms,  cut  by  the  far-off  folk  for  their  peats — 
and  on  the  foreground  something  like  water,  black  and  sullen, 

*  This  accomplished  gentleman  and  keen  sportsman  was  the  author  of  a 
finely  illustrated  work  on  deer  stalking. 


The  Moor  and  the  "  Brig"  67 

as  if  it  quaked.  Nae  birds  but  some  whaups  * — ane  Heein, 
and  ane  walkin  by  itsel,  and  ane  just  showin  its  lang  neck 
amang  some  rushes.  You  think,  at  first,  it  may  be  the  head 
o'  a  serpent — but  there's  nane  amang  our  mosses,  only 
asks,  which  is  a  sort  o'  lizards,  or  wee  alligators,  green,  and 
glidin  awa  without  noise  or  rustle  intil  the  heather.  Time — 
evening,  or  rather  late  on  in  the  afternoon,  when  Nature 
shows  a  solemn — maist  an  awfu'  stillness — and  solitude,  as  I 
hae  aften  thocht,  is  deeper  than  at  midnight. 

North.  James,  I  will  give  you  twenty  guineas  for  that 
keelivine  sketch. 

Shepherd.  Ye'se  hae't  for  naething  sir,  and  welcome — if 
you'll  only  fasten't  against  the  wa'  wi'  a  prin  f  aboon  the 
brace-piece  o'  your  Leebrary-room.  Let  it  be  in  the  middle, 
and  you  sail  hae  Twa  Brigs  to  hing  at  either  side  on't.  The 
ane,  a'  the  time  I  was  drawin't,  I  could  hardly  persuade 
mysel  wasna  a  rainbow.  You  see,  it's  flung  across  a  torrent 
gey  an  far*  up  a  hill-side,  and  I  was  sittin  sketchin't  a  gude 
piece  doun  below,  on  a  cairn.  The  spray  o'  the  torrent  had 
wat  a'  the  mosses,  and  flowers,  and  weeds,  and  siclike  on 
the  arch,  and  the  sun  smote  it  wi'  sudden  glory,  till  in  an 
instant  it  burst  into  a  variegated  lowe,  and  I  could  hae  taen 
my  Bible-oath  it  was  the  rainbow.  Oh  !  man,  that  I  had 
had  a  pullet  o'  colors  !  I'm  sure  I  could  hae  mixed  them  up 
prismatically  aneuch, — yet  wi'  the  verra  mere,  naked,  unas 
sisted  keelivine  (that  day  fortunately  it  was  a  red  ane),  I 
caught  the  character  o'  the  apparition  ;  and  keepin  my  een  for 
about  a  minute  on  the  paper,  shadin  aff  and  aff,  you  ken,  as 
fine  as  I  could — when  I  luckit  up  again,  naething  but  a  bare 
stane-and  lime  brig,  wi'  an  auld  man  sittin  on  a  powney,  wi' 
his  knees  up  to  his  chin — for  he  happened  to  be  a  cadger, 

*  Whaups— curlews.  t  Prin— pin. 


68  Serious  Eating. 

and  he  had  his  creels.  I  felt  as  if  it  had  been  a'  glamour. 
Sae  muckle  for  ane  o'  the  Twa  Brigs. 

Tickler.  Now,  James,  if  you  please,  we  shall  adjourn  to 
supper.  It  is  now  exactly  ten  o'clock,  and  I  smell  the  tur 
key.  From  seven  o'clock  to  this  blessed  moment  your  tongue 
has  never  ceased  wagging.  I  must  now  have  my  turn. 

Shepherd.  Tak  your  turn,  and  welcome.  As  for  me,  I 
never  speak  nane  during  supper.  But  you  may  e'en  give  us 
a  soliloquy. 

North.  Ten  o'clock !     Now,  James,  eye  the  folding  doors 
— for  Ambrose  is  true  to  a  second.     Lo,  and  behold ! 
(The  doors  are  thrown  open.} 

Shepherd.  Stop,  Mullion,  stop.  What !  will  ye  daur  to 
walk  before  Mr.  North  ?  Tak  my  arm,  sir. 

North.  My  dear  James,  you  are  indeed  my  right-hand 
man.  You  are  as  firm  as  a  rock.  Thou  art  indeed  the 
"  Gentle  Shepherd—" 

Shepherd.  Gentle  is  that  gentle  does — and  I  hope,  on  the 
whole,  nane  o'  my  freen's  hae  ony  reason  to  be  ashamed  o* 
me,  though  I  hae  my  failins. 

North.  I  know  not  what  they  are,  James.     There — there 

—on  the  right  hand — ay,  say  the  grace,  James. Thank 

ye,  James — we  have  been  joking  away,  but  now  it  behoves 
us  to  sit  down  to  serious  eating,  while  Timothy  regales  our 
ears  with  a  monologue. 


VI. 

IN  WHICH  THE  SHEPHED  ASSISTS  AT  AN  INCREMA 
TION. 

Blue  Parlor. 

NORTH. — TICKLER. — SHEPHERD. — CLERK  OP  THE  BA 
LAAM-BOX. — MR  AMBROSE. — DEVIL. — PORTERS. — IN- 
CREMATORS. 

Shepherd.  Safe  us  !     I  was  never  at  an  Incremation  afore  ! 

North.  Mr.  Ambrose,  bring  in  Balaam,*  and  place  him  on 
the  table. 

$Ir.  Ambrose.  May  I  crave  the  assistance  of  the  Increma- 
tors,  sir — for  he  is  heavier  this  year  than  I  ever  remember 
him,  since  that  succeeding  the  Chaldee. 

Shepherd.  Is  yon  him  ower-by  in  the  window  neuk.  I'se 
tak  haud  o'  ane  o'  the  end-handles  mysel.  Come,  you  wee 
lazy  deevil  there,  what  for  are  you  skartin  your  lug  at  that 
gate  ?  Get  up  and  be  usefu'. — Noo,  Mr.  Ambrose,  let  us  put 
a'  our  strength  till't,  arid  try  to  hoise  him  up,  our  twa  lanes, 
ontil  the  table. 

Tickler.  My  dear  Shepherd,  you'll  burst  a  blood-vessel. 
Let  me  assist. 

North.  And  me  too  ! 

Shepherd.  Dinna  loot  f  wi'  that  lang  back  o'  yours,  Mr. 
Tickler.  Pity  me — I  hear't  crackin.  There,  it  muves !  it 
muves ! — What  for  are  you  trampin  on  my  taes,  Mr.  Awmrose  ? 

*  The  depository  of  rejected  contributions.  t  Loot— stoop. 


70  The  Preliminaries. 

— Dinna  girn  that  way  in  my  face,  Mr.  Beelzebub.   Faith,  it 
gars  us  a'  fowre  stoiter.* 

(SHEPHERD.  TICKLER,  BEELZEBUB,  and  AMBROSE 
succeed  in  placing  the  Balaam-box  on  the  table.) 

North.  Thank  ye,  gentlemen.  Here  is  a  glass  of  Madeira 
to  each  of  you. 

Shepherd.  North,  rax  me  ower  the  Stork.  There — that's 
a  hantle  heartsomer  than  ony  o'  your  wines,  either  white  or 
black.  It's  just  maist  excellent  whisky,  Glenlivet  or  no 
Glenlivet.  But  hech,  sir,  that's  a  sad  box,  that  Balaam,  and 
I'll  weigh't  against  its  ain  bouk,|  lead  only  excepted  o'  ony 
ither  material  noo  extant,  and  gi'e  a  stane. 

North.  Let  the  Incremators  take  their  stations. 

(They  do  so,  one,  at  each  side  of  the  chimney.  The 
Incremators  are  Jiremen  belonging  to  the  Sun  Fire 
Office.) 

Devil ! 

Devil.  Here  ! 

North.  Clerk  of  the  B.  B. 

O.  B.  B.  Here  ! 

North.  Open  Balaam. 

G.  B.  B.  Please,  sir,  to  remember  the  catastrophe  of  last 
year.  We  must  take  the  necessary  precautions. 

North.  Certainly. — Mr.  Hogg,  on  opening  Balaam  last 
year,  we  had  neglected  to  put  weight  on  the  lid,  and  the  mo 
ment  the  clerk  had  turned  the  key,  it  flew  up  with  prodig 
ious  violence,  and  the  jammed-down  articles,  as  if  discharged 
from  .a  culverin,  wafted  destruction  around — breaking  that 
beautiful  fifty-guinea  mirror,  in  whose  calm  and  lucid  depths 
wo  had  so  often  seen  ourselves  reflected  to  the  very  life — 
all  but  speech. 

Shepherd.  I  could  greet  to  think  on't.  A'  dung  |  to  shivers 
— scarcely  ae  bit  big  eneuch  to  shave  by.  But  the  same 

*  Stoiter — stagger.  t  Bouk — bulk.  J  Dung — knocked. 


Lucifer  and  Beelzebub.  71 

shinna*  befa'  the  year — for  I'se  sit  doun  upon  the  lid  like 
a  guardian  angel,  and  the  lid'll  hae  a  powerfu'  spring  indeed 
gin  it  whamles  me  ower  after  sic  a  denner. 

(The  SHEPHERD  mounts  the  table  with  youthful  alacrity, 

and  sits  down  on  the  Balaam-box.) 
North.  Use  both  your  hands,  sir. 

C.  B.  B.    Beg  your  pardon — Mr.  North — there  the  key 
turns. — Sit  fast,  Mr.  Hogg. 

Shepherd.  Never  niind  me,  I'm  sittin  as  fast's  a  rock. — 
(The  lid,  like  a  catapulta,  dislodges  the  SHEPHERD,  who 

alights  on  his  feet  a  few  yards  from  the  table.) 
Tickler.  My  dear  Shepherd,  why,  you  are  a  rejected  con 
tributor  ! 

North.  Mr.  Ambrose,  stnd  in  the  scavenger. — Sorters,  col 
lect  and  arrange. 

(C.  B.  B.,  SORTERS,  and  DEVIL  in  full  employment.) 
Shepherd.  Thae  Incremawtors  hae  a  gran'  effec !  They 
canna  be  less  than  sax  feet  four,  and  then  what  whuskers ! 
I  scarcely  ken  whether  black  whuskers  or  red  whuskers  be 
the  maist  fearsome  !  What  tangs  in  their  hauns  !  and  what 
pokers  !  Lucifer  and  Beelzebub  ! 

North.  At  home,  James,  and  at  their  own  firesides,  they 
are  the  most*  peaceable  of  men. 

Shepherd.  I  canna  believe't,  Mr.  North,  I  canna  believe't ! 
they  can  hae  nae  human  feeling — neither  sighs  nor  tears. 

North.  They  are  men,  James,  and  do  their  duty. — He  with 
the  red  whiskers  was  married  this  forenoon  to  a  pretty  del 
icate  little  gir]  of  eighteen,  quite  a  fairy  of  a  thing — seem 
ingly  made  of  animated  wax — so  soft  that,  like  the  winged 
butterfly,  you  would  fear  to  touch  her,  lest  you  might  spoil 
the  burnished  beauty. 

Shepherd.  Married — on  him  wi'  the  red  whuskei  s ! 

*  Shinna — shall  not. 


72  «  All  Poetry  to  Beelzebub:' 

North.  Come,  now,  James,  no  affected  simplicity,  no  Arca 
dian  innocence  ! 

Shepherd.  You  micht  hae  gi'en  him  the  play  the  day,  I 
think,  sir ;  you  micht  hae  gi'en  him  the  play.  The  Incre- 
mawtor ! 

Devil.  The  sorters  have  made  up  a  skuttlefu'  o' poetry. — 
Sir,  shall  I  deliver  up  to  Lucifer  or  Beelzebub  ? 

North.  All  poetry  to  Beelzebub. 

Shepherd.  A'  poetry  to  Beelzebub  !  !  O  wae's  me,  wae's 
me. — Well-a-day,  well-a-day  !  Has  it  indeed  come  to  this  ? 
A'  poetry  to  Beelzebub  !  I  can  scarce  believe  my  lugs — 

North.  Stop,  Beelzebub — read  aloud  that  bit  of  paper  you 
have  in  your  fist. 

Beelzebub.  Yes,  sir. 

Shepherd.  Lord  safe  us,  what  a  voice  !  They're  my  ain 
verses,  too.  Whist — whist. 

(BEELZEBUB  recites  "  The  great  muckle  village  of  Bal- 
raaquhapple.") 

North  (to  Tickler,  aside).  Bad — Hogg's. 

Shepherd.  What's  that  you  two  are  speaking  about  ? 
Speak  up. 

North.  These  fine  lines  must  be  preserved,  James.  Pray, 
are  they  allegorical  ? 

Shepherd.  What  a  dracht  in  that  lum !  *  It's  a  verra 
fiery  furnace  ! — hear  till't  hoo  it  roars,  like  wund  in  a  cavern  ! 
Sonnets,  charauds,  elegies,  pastorals,  lyrics,  farces,  tragedies, 
and  y epics — in  they  a'  gang  into  the  general  bleeze  ;  then 
there  is  naething  but  sparkling  ashes,  and  noo  the  thin,  black, 
wavering  coom  o'  annihilation  and  oblivion  !  It's  a  sad 
sicht,  and  but  for  the  bairnliness  o't,  I  could  weel  greet. 
Puir  chiels  and  lasses,  they  had  ither  howps  when  they  sat 
down  to  compose,  and  invoked  Apollo  and  the  Muses  ! 

*  Lum — chimney. 


A  Midnight  Burning  of  Heather.  73 

North.  James,  the  poor  creatures  have  been  all  happy  in 
their  inspiration.  Why  weep  ?  Probably,  too,  they  kept 
copies,  and  other  Balaam-boxes  may  be  groaning  with  dupli 
cates.  'Tis  a  strange  world  we  live  in ! 

Shepherd.  Was  you  ever  at  the  burning  o'  heather  or 
whins,  Mr.  North  ? 

North.  I  have,  and  have  enjoyed  the  illuminated  heavens. 

Tickler.  Describe. 

North.  In  half-an-hour  from  the  first  spark,  the  hill  glow 
ed  with  fire  unextinguishable  by  waterspout.  The  crackle 
became  a  growl,  as  acre  after  acre  joined  the  flames.  Here 
and  there  a  rock  stood  in  the  way,  and  the  burning  waves 
broke  against  it,  till  the  crowning  birch-tree  took  fire,  and  its 
tresses,  like  a  shower  of  flaming  diamonds,  were  in  a  minute 
consumed.  Whirr,  whirr,  played  the  frequent  gorcock 
gobbling  in  his  fear ;  and,  swift  as  shadows,  the  old  hawks 
flew  screaming  from  their  young,  all  smothered  in  a  nest  of 
ashes. 

Tickler.  Good — excellent ! — Go  it  again. 

North.  The  great  pine-forest  on  the  mountain  side,  two 
miles  off,  frowned  in  ghastly  light,  as  in  a  stormy  sunset — 
and  you  could  see  the  herd  of  red  deer,  a  whirlwind  of  ant 
lers,  descending,  in  their  terror,  into  the  black  glen,  whose 
entrance  gleamed  once — twice — thrice,  as  if  there  had  been 
lightning  ;  and  then,  as  the  wind  changed  the  direction  of 
the  flames,  all  the  distance  sank  in  dark  repose. 

Tickler.  Vivid  coloring,  indeed,  sir.     Paint  away. 

North.  That  was  an  eagle  that  shot  between  and  the  moon. 

Tickler.  What  an  image  ! 

North.  Millions  of  millions  of  sparks  of  fire  in  heaven,  but 
only  some  six  or  seven  stars.  How  calm  the  large  lustre  of 
Hesperus ! 

Tickler.  James,  what  do  you  think  of  that,  eh  ? 


74  T7ie  Heat  becomes  intolerable. 

Shepherd.  Didna  ye  pity  the  taids  and  puddocks,  and  asks 
and  beetles,  and  slaters  and  snails  and  spiders,  and  worms 
and  ants,  and  caterpillars  and  bumbees,  and  a'  the  rest  o' 
the  insect-world,  perishin  in  the  flamin  nicht  o'  their  last 
judgment  ? 

North.  In  another  season,  James,  what  life,  beauty,  and 
bliss  over  the  verdant  wilderness !  There  you  see  and  hear 
the  bees  busy  on  the  white  clover — while  the  lark  comes 
wavering  down  from  heaven,  to  sit  beside  his  .mate  on  her 
nest !  Here  and  there  are  still  seen  the  traces  of  fire,  but 
they  are  nearly  hidden  by  flowers — and — 

Shepherd.  For  a  town-chiel,  Mr.  North,  you  describe  the 
kintra  wi'  surprisin  truth  and  spirit;  but  there's  aye  some 
thing  rather  wantin  about  your  happiest  pictures,  as  if  you 
had  glowered  on  everything  in  a  dream  or  trance. 

North.  Like  your  own  Kilmeny,  James,  I  am  fain  to  steal 
away  from  this  everyday  world  into  the  Land  of  Glamoury. 

Shepherd.  O  sirs  !  the  room's  gettin  desperate  warm.  I 
pity  the  poor  Incremawtors — they  maun  be  unco  dry.  Beel 
zebub,  open  the  window,  man,  ye  ugly  deevil,  and  let  in  a 
current  o'  cool  air.  Mr.  North,  I  canna  thole  the  heat ;  and 
I  ask  it  as  a  particular  favor,  no  to  burn  the  prose  till  after 
supper.  At  a'  events,  let  the  married  Incremawtor  gang 
hame  to  his  bride — and  there's  five  shillings  to  him  to  drink 
my  health  at  his  aiu  ingle. 

(INCREMATOR,  DEVIL,  CLERK  OF  THE  BALAAM-BOX, 
PORTERS,  and  MR.  AMBROSE  retire.) 

North.  Who  are  the  wittiest  men  of  our  day,  Tickler  ? 

Tickler.  Christopher  North,  Timothy  Tickler,  and  Jaines 
Hogg. 

North.  Poo,  poo — we  all  know  that — but  out  of  doors  ? 

Tickler.  Canning,  Sydney  Smith,  and  Jeffrey. 

North.  I  fear  it  is  so.      Canning's  wit  is  infallible.      It  is 


Canning  and  Brougham.  75 

never  out  of  time  or  place,  and  is  finely  proportioned  to  its 
object.  Has  he  a  good-natured,  gentlemanly,  well-educated 
blockhead — say  of  the  landed  interest — to  make  ridiculous, 
he  does  it  so  pleasantly,  that  the  Esquire  joins  in  the  general 
smile.  Is  it  a  coarse,  calculating  dunce  of  the  mercantile 
school — he  suddenly  hits  him  such  a  heavy  blow  on  the  organ 
of  number,  that  the  stunned  economist  is  unable  to  sum  up 
the  total  of  the  whole.  Would  some  pert  prig  of  the  profes 
sion  be  facetious  overmuch,  Canning  ventures  to  the  very 
borders  of  vulgarity,  and  discomfits  him  with  an  old  Joe. 
Doth  some  mouthing  member  of  mediocrity  sport  orator,  and 
make  use  of  a  dead  tongue,  then  the  classical  Secretary  * 
runs  him  through  and  through  with  apt  quotations,  and  before 
the  member  feels  himself  wounded,  the  whole  House  sees 
that  he  is  a  dead  man. 

Tickler.  His  wit  is  shown  in  greatest  power  in  the  battles 
of  the  giants.  When  Brougham  bellows  against  him,  a  Bull 
of  Bashan,  the  Secretary  waits  till  his  horns  are  lowered  for. 
the  death-blow,  and  then,  stepping  aside,  he  plants  with 
graceful  dexterity  the  fine-tempered  weapon  in  the  spine  of 
the  mighty  Brute. 

Shepherd.  Whish ! — Nae  personality  the  nicht.  Michty 
Brute. — Do  you  ca'  Hairy  Brumm  a  michty  Brute  ?  He's 
just  a  maist  agreeable  enterteenin  fallow,  and  I  recollect 
sittin  up  wi'  him  a'  nicht,  for  three  nichts  rinnin,  about 
thretty  years  syne,  at  Miss  Ritchie's  hottel,  Peebles.  O  man, 
but  he  was  wutty  wutty — and  bricht  thochts  o'  a  maist  ex 
traordinary  kind  met  thegether  frae  the  opposite  poles  o' 
the  human  understanding.  I  prophesied  at  every  new  half- 
mutchkin  that  Mr.  Brumm  would  be  a  distinguished  charac 
ter  ;  and  there  he  is,  you  see,  Leader  o'  the  Opposition  ! 

Tickler.  His  Majesty's  Opposition  ! 

*  At  tliis  time  Canning  was  Secretary  of  State  for  Foreign  Affairs. 


76  Sydney  Smith. 

North.  Sydney  Smith  is  a  wit. 

Shepherd.  No  him — perpetually  playiu  upon  words.  I 
canna  thole  to  hear  words  played  upon  till  they  lose  their 
natural  downright  meaning  and  signification.  It  was  only 
last  week  that  a  fallow  frae  Edinburgh  came  out  to  the  south 
for  orders  o'  speerits  amang  the  glens  (rum,  and  brandy,  and 
Hollands),  and  I  asked  him  to  dine  at  Mount  Benger.  He 
had  hardly  put  his  hat  on  a  peg  in  the  transe,*  afore  he  began 
playin  wi'  his  ain  words ;  and  he  had  nae  sooner  sat  down, 
than  he  began  playin  wi'  mine  too,  makin  puns  o'  them,  and 
double-entendres,  and  bits  o'  intolerable  wutticisms,  aneuch 
to  make  a  body  scunner.  Faith,  I  cut  him  short,  by  tellin 
him  that  nae  speerit  dealer  in  the  kingdom  should  play  the 
fule  in  my  house,  and  that  if  he  was  a  wut,  he  had  better 
saddle  his  powney  and  be  aff  to  Selkirk.  He  grew  red  red 
in  the  face ;  but  for  the  rest  o'  the  evening,  and  we  didna 
gang  to  bed  till  the  sma'  hours,  he  was  not  only  rational,  but 
clever  and  weel-informed,  and  I  gi'ed  him  an  order  for  twenty 
gallons. 

Tickler.  Yes — Sydney  Smith  has  a  rare  genius  for  the 
grotesque.  He  is,  with  his  quips  and  cranks,  a  formidable 
enemy  to  pomposity,  and  pretension.  No  man  can  wear  a 
big  wig  comfortably  in  his  presence :  the  absurdity  of  such 
enormous  frizzle  is  felt ;  and  the  dignitajy  would  fain  ex 
change  all  that  horse-hair  for  a  few  scattered  locks  of  another 
animal. 

North.  He  would  make  a  lively  interlocutor  at  a  Noctes. 
Indeed,  I  intend  to  ask  him,  and  Mr.  Jeffrey,  and  Cobbett, 
and  Joseph  Hume,  and  a  few  more  choice  spirits,  to  join  our 
festive  board — 

Shepherd.  O  man,  that  will  be  capital  sports  !  Sic  con 
versation  ! 

•  T^cunse— a  passage  within  a  house,— the  lobby. 


A  Thunderstorm  in  Yarrow.  77 

Tickler.  0  my  dear  James,  conversation  is  at  a  very  low 
ebb  in  this  world ! 

Shepherd.  I've  often  thought  and  felt  that,  at  parties 
where  ane  micht  hae  expeckit  better  things.  First  o'  a'  comes 
the  wather — no  a  bad  toppic,  but  ane  that  town's  folks  kens 
naething  about.  Wather  !  My  faith,  had  ye  been  but  in 
Yarrow  last  Thursday  ! 

Tickler.  What  was  the  matter,  James,  the  last  Thursday 
in  Yarrow  ? 

Shepherd.  I'se  tell  you,  and  judge  for  yoursel.  At  four  in 
the  mornin,  it  was  that  hard  frost  that  the  dubs  *  were 
bearin,  and  the  midden  f  was  as  hard  as  a  rickle  o'  stanes. 
We  couldna  plant  the  potawtoes.  But  the  lift  was  clear. 
Between  eight  and  nine,  a  snaw-storm  came  down  frae  the 
mountains  about  Loch  Skene — noo  a  whirl,  and  noo  a  blash, 
till  the  grun'  was  whitey-blue,  wi'  a  sliddery  sort  o'  sleet, 
and  the  Yarrow  began  to  roar  wi'  the  melted  broo  alang  its 
frost-bound  borders,  and  aneath  its  banks,  a'  hanging  wi' 
icicles,  nane  o'  them  thinner  than  my  twa  arms.  Weel,  then, 
about  eleven  it  began  to  rain,  for  the  wund  had  shifted — and 
afore  dinnertime  it  was  an  even-doun  pour.  It  fell  lown 
about  sax,  and  the  air  grew  close  and  sultry  to  a  degree  that 
was  fearsome.  Wha  wud  hae  expeckit  a  thunderstorm  on 
the  eve  o'  sic  a  day  ?  But  the  heavens,  in  the  thundery  airt, 
were  like  a  dungeon — and  1  saw  the  lightning  playing  like 
meteors  athwart  the  blackness,  lang  before  ony  growl  was 
in  the  gloom.  Then,  a'  at  ance,  like  a  waken'd  lion,  the 
thunder  rose  up  in  his  den,  and  shakin  his  mane  o'  brindled 
clouds,  broke  out  into  sic  a  roar,  that  the  very  sun  shud 
dered  in  eclipse — and  the  grews  and  collies  that  happened 
to  be  sittin  beside  me  on  a  bit  knowe,  gaed  whinin  into  the 
house  wi'  their  tails  atween  their  legs,  just  venturin  a  hafflin 

4 
•  Dubs— puddles.  t  Midden — dunghill. 


78  A  Calm  in  Yarrow. 

glance  to  the  howling  heavens,  noo  a'  in  low,  for  the  fire 
was  strong  and  fierce  in  electrical  matter,  and  at  intervals 
the  illuminated  mountains  seemed  to  vomit  out  conflagration 
like  verra  volcanoes. 

Tickler.      '  E~sa  -reposvra  ! 

Shepherd.  Afore  sunset,  heaven  and  earth,  like  lovers  after 
a  quarrel,  Jay  embraced  in  each  other's  smile ! 

North.  Beautiful !  Beautiful !  Beautiful ! 

Tickler.     Oh  !  James — James — James  ! 

Shepherd.  The  lambs  began  their  races  on  the  lea,  and  the 
thrush  o'  Eltrive  (there  is  but  a  single  pair  in  the  vale  aboon 
the  kirk)  awoke  his  hymn  in  the  hill-silence.  It  was  mair 
like  a  mornin  than  an  evenin  twilight,  and  a'  the  day's  hurly- 
burly  had  passed  awa  into  the  uncertainty  o'  a  last  week's 
dream ! 

North.  Proof  positive  that,  from  the  lips  of  a  man  of 
genius,  even  the  weather — 

Shepherd.  I  could  speak  for  hours,  days,  months,  and 
years  about  the  wather,  without  e'er  becoming  tiresome.  O 
man,  a  cawm  ! 

North.  On  shore,  or  at  sea  ? 

Shepherd.  Either.  I'm  wrapped  up  in  my  plaid,  and  lyin 
a'  my  length  on  a  bit  green  platform,  fit  for  the  faries'  feet, 
wi'  a  craig  hangin  ower  me  a  thousand  feet  high,  yet  bright 
and  balmy  a'  the  way  up  wi'  flowers  and  briars,  and  broom 
and  birks,  and  mosses  maist  beautifu'  to  behold  wi'  half-shut 
ee,  and  through  aneath  ane's  arm,  guardin  the  face  frae  the 
cloudless  sunshine ! 

North.  A  rivulet  leaping  from  the  rock — 

Shepherd.  No,  Mr.  North,  no  loupin  ;  for  it  seems  as  if  it 
were  nature's  ain  Sabbath,  and  the  verra  waters  were  at  rest. 
Look  down  upon  the  vale  profound,  and  the  stream  is  with 
out  motion  !  No  doubt,  if  you  were  walking  along  the  bank, 


A  Calm  in  Yarrbiv.  79 

it  would  be  murmuring  with  your  feet.  But  here — here  up 
among  the  hills,  we  can  imagine  it  asleep,  even  like  the  well 
within  reach  of  my  staff! 

North.  Tickler,  pray  make  less  noise,  if  you  can,  in  drina. 
ing,  and  also  in  putting  down  your  tumbler.  You  break  in 
upon  the  repose  of  James'  picture. 

Shepherd.  Perhaps  a  bit  bonny  butterfly  is  resting  wi* 
faulded  wings  on  a  gowan,  no  a  yard  frae  your  cheek ;  and 
noo,  waukening  out  o'  a  simmer  dream,  floats  awa  in  its 
wavering  beauty,  but,  as  if  unwilling  to  leave  its  place  of 
mid-day  sleep,  comin  back  and  back,  and  roun'  and  roun', 
on  this  side  and  that  side,  and  ettlin  *  in  its  capricious  happi 
ness  to  fasten  again  on  some  brighter  floweret,  till  the  same 
breath  o'  wund  that  lifts  up  your  hair  sae  refreshingly  catches 
the  airy  voyager,  and  wafts  her  away  into  some  other  nook, 
of  her  ephemeral  paradise. 

Tickler.  I  did  not  know  that  butterflies  inhabited  the  re 
gion  of  snow. 

Shepherd.  Ay,  and  mony  million  moths  ;  some  o'  as  lovely 
green  as  of  the  leaf  of  the  moss-rose,  and  ithers  bright  as  the 
blush  with  which  she  salutes  the  dewy  dawn  ;  some  yellow 
as  the  long  steady  streaks  that  lie  below  the  sun  at  set,  and 
ithers  blue  as  the  sky  before  his  orb  has  westered.  Spotted, 
too,  are  all  the  glorious  creatures'  wings — say,  rather, 
starred  wi'  constellations  !  Yet,  O  sirs,  they  are  but  crea 
tures  o'  a  day  ! 

North.  Go  on  with  the  calm,  James — the  calm ! 

Shepherd.  Gin  a  pile  o'  grass  straughtens  itself  in  silence, 
you  hear  it  distinctly.  I'm  thinkin  that  was  the  noise  o'  a 
beetle  gaun  to  pay  a  visit  to  a  freen  on  the  ither  side  o'  that 
mossy  stane.  The  melting  dew  quakes !  Ay,  sing  awa,  my 
bonny  bee,  maist  industrious  o'  God's  creatures  !  Dear  me, 

*  Ettlin — intending,  attempting. 


80  A  Temple  in  the  Clouds. 

the  heat  is  ower  muckle  for  him,  and  he  burrows  himsel  in 
amang  a  tuft  o'  grass,  like  a  beetle  panting !  and  noo  invisi 
ble  a'  but  the  yellow  doup  o'  him.  I  too  feel  drowsy,  and 
will  go  to  sleep  amang  the  mountain  solitude. 

North.  Not  with  such  a  show  of  clouds — 

Shepherd.  No  !  not  with  such  a  show  of  clouds.  A  congre 
gation  of  a  million  might  worship  in  that  Cathedral !  What 
a  dome !  And  is  not  that  flight  of  steps  magnificent  ?  My 
imagination  sees  a  crowd  of  white-robed  spirits  ascending  to 
the  inner  shrine  of  the  temple.  Hark — a  bell  tolls  !  Yon 
der  it  is,  swinging  to  and  fro,  half-minute  time,  in  its  tower 
of  clouds.  The  great  air-organ  'gins  to  blow  its  pealing 
anthem — and  the  overcharged  spirit,  falling  from  its  vision, 
sees  nothing  but  the  pageantry  of  earth's  common  vapors — 
that  ere  long  will  melt  in  showers,  or  be  wafted  away  in 
darker  masses  over  the  distance  of  the  sea.  Of  what  better 
stun7,  O  Mr.  North,  are  made  all  our  waking  dreams  ?  Call 
not  thy  Shepherd's  strain  fantastic  ;  but  look  abroad  over 
the  work-day  world,  and  tell  him  where  thou  seest  aught 
more  steadfast  or  substantial  than  that  cloud-cathedral,  with 
its  flight  of  vapor-steps,  and  its  mist  towers,  and  its  air-organ, 
now  all  gone  for  ever,  like  the  idle  words  that  imaged  the 
transitory  and  delusive  glories. 

Tickler.  Bravo,  Shepherd,  bravo  !  You  have  nobly  vindi 
cated  the  weather  as  a  topic  of  conversation.  What  think 
you  of  the  Theatre — Preaching — Politics — Magazines  and 
Reviews,  and  the  threatened  Millenium  ? 

Shepherd.  Na,  let  me  tak  my  breath.  What  think  ye 
Mr.  Tickler,  yoursel,  o'  preachin  ? 

Tickler.  No  man  goes  to  church  more  regularly  than  I  do  ; 
but  the  people  of  Scotland  are  cruelly  used  by  their  ministers. 
No  sermon  should  exceed  half  an  hour  at  the  utmost.  That  13 
a  full  allowance.  .  .  .  (  The  long-winded  are  rated  by  the  three.) 


Tickler  in  the  Pulpit.  81 

North.  What  the  deuce  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  vitupera 
tion  ? 

Shepherd.  Deil  tak  me  gin  I  ken.  But  I  fin'  mysel  gettin 
desperate  angry  at  something  or  ither,  and  could  abuse  maist 
onybody.  Wha  was't  that  .introduced  the  toppic  o'  kirks  ? 
I'm  sure  it  wasna  me.  It  was  you,  Mr.  Tickler. 

Tickler.  Me  introduce  the  top  of  kirks? 

Shepherd.  Yes  ;  you  said,  "  What  think  you  of  the  theatre 
-—preaching  —  politics — magazines  arid  reviews,  and  the 
threatened  millennium  ?  "  I'll  swear  to  the  verra  words,  as 
if  I  had  taen  them  down  wi'  the  keelivine. 

North.  James,  don't  you  think  Tickler  would  have  been 
an  admirable  preacher  ? 

Shepherd.  I  canna  say ;  but  I  could  answer  for  his  being 
a  good  precentor.* 

Tickler.  Why  not  a  preacher  ? 

Shepherd.  You  wadna  hae  been  to  be  depended  on.  Your 
discourses,  like  your  ain  figure,  wad  hae  wanted  proportion ; 
and  as  for  doctrine,  I  doubt  you  wad  hae  -been  heterodox. 
Then,  you  wad  hae  been  sic  a  queer-lookin  chiel  in  the  poupit ! 

Tickler.  Don't  you  think  I  would  have  been  an  admirable 
Moderator  ?  f 

Shepherd.  You're  just  best  as  you  are — a  gentleman  at  large. 
You're  scarcely  weel  adapted  for  ony  profession — except 
maybe  a  fizician.  You  wad  hae  fau'J  a  pulse  wi'  a  true 
Esculawpian  solemnity  ;  and  that  face  o'  yours,  when  you 
looked  glum  or  gruesome,  wad  hae  frichtened  families  into 
fees,  and  held  patients  down  to  sick-beds,  season  after 
season.  O  man  !  but  you  wad  hae  had  gran'  practice. 

*  The  "  prerentor "  in  the  Presbyterian  service  corresponds  to  the 
"  clerk  "  in  the  Episcopalian. 

t  Moderator,  or  president,  of  the  General  Assembly  of  the  Ohurch  of 
Scotland. 

t  Fan'— felt. 


82  Quackery  in  all  Professions. 

Tickler.  I  could  not  have  endured  the  quackery  of  the 
thing,  Hogg. 

Shepherd.  Haud  your  tongue.  There's  equal  quackery  in 
a'  things  alike.  Look  at  a  sodger — that  is,  an  offisher — a' 
wavin  wi'  white  plumes,  glitterin  wi'  gowd,  and  ringin  wi' 
iron — gallopin  on  a  grey  horse,  that  caves  *  the  foam  frae  its 
fiery  nostrils,  wi'  a  mane  o'  clouds,  and  a  tail  that  flows  like 
a  cataract — mustachies  about  the  mouth  like  a  devourin  can 
nibal,  and  proud,  fierce  een,  that  seem  glowerin  for  an  enemy 
into  the  distant  horrison — his  long  swurd  swinging  in  the 
scabbard  wi'  a  fearsome  clatter  aneath  Bellerophon's  belly 
— and  his  doup  dunshin  f  down  among  the  spats  o'  a  teeg 
ger's  skin,  or  that  o'  a  leopard — till  the  sound  o'  the  trumpet 
gangs  up  to  the  sky.  answered  by  the  rampaugin  Arab's  "  ha, 
ha," — and  a'  the  stopped  street  stares  on  the  aide-de-camp  o' 
the  stawf, — writers'  clerks,  bakers,  butchers,  and  printers' 
deevils,  a'  wushin  they  were  sodgers, — and  leddies  frae  bal 
conies,  where  they  sit  shooin  silk  purses  in  the  sunshine, 
start  up,  and,  wf  palpitatin  hearts,  send  looks  o'  love  and 
languishment  after  the  Flyin  Dragon. 

North.  Mercy  on  us,  James,  you  are  a  perfect  Tyrtseus. 

Shepherd.  O  !  wad  you  believe't — but  it's  true — that  at 
school  that  symbol  o'  extermination  was  ca'd  Fozie  $  Tarn  ? 

North.  Spare  us,  James — spare  us.  The  pain  in  our  side 
returns. 

Shepherd.  Every  callant  in  the  class  could  gie  him  his  licks  ; 
and  I  recollec  ance  a  lassie  geein  him  a  bloody  nose.  He 
durstna  gang  into  the  dookin  §  aboon  his  doup,  for  fear  o' 
drownin,  and  even  then  wi'  seggs  ;  IF  and  as  for  speelin  trees, 

*  Care*— tosses. 

t  Dunshin.—  There  seems  to  be  no  English  word  for  tliis  except  "bump. 
Ing  ;  "  yet  how  feeble. 

t  Fozie— soft  as  a  frost-bitten  turnip.  §  DooHn— bathing. 

t  Seggs— sedges,  answering  the  purpose  of  a  cork  jacket. 


"Fozie  Tarn."  83 

he  never  ventured  aboon  the  rotten  branches  o'  a  Scotch  fir. 
He  was  feared  for  ghosts,  and  wadna  sleep  in  a  room  by  hiin- 
sel ;  and  ance  on  a  Halloween,  he  swarfed  at  the  apparition 
o'  a  lowin  turnip.  *  But  noo  he's  a  warrior,  and  fought  at 
Waterloo.  Yes — Fozie  Tarn  wears  a  medal,  for  he  overthrew 
Napoleon.  Ca'  ye  na  that  quackery,  wi'  a  vengeance  ? 

North.  Why,  James,  you  do  not  mean  surely  thus  to  char 
acterize  the  British  soldier  ? 

Shepherd.  No.  The  British  army,  drawn  up  in  order  o' 
battle,  seems  to  me  an  earthly  image  of  the  power  of  the 
right  hand  of  God.  But  still  what  I  said  was  true,  and  nae 
ither  name  had  he  at  school  but  Fozie  Tarn.  O  sirs  !  when 
I  see  what  creturs  like  him  can  do,  1  could  greet  that  I'm  no 
a  sodger. 

Tickler.  What  the  deuce  can  they  do,  that  you  or  I,  James, 
cannot  do  as  well,  or  better  ? 

Shepherd.  I  wonder  to  hear  you  askin.  Let  you  or  me 
gang  into  a  public  room  at  ae  door,  amang  a  hunder  bonny 
lassies,  and  Fozie  Tarn  in  full  uniform  at  anither,  and  every 
star  in  the  firmament  will  shine  on  him  alone — no  a  glint  for 
ane  o'  us  twa — no  a  smile  or  a  syllable — we  can  only  see  the 
back  o'  their  necks. 

Tickler.  And  bare  enough  they  probably  are,  James. 

Shepherd.  Nae  great  harm  in  that,  Mr.  Tickler,  for  a  bonny 
bare  neck  can  do  naebody  ill,  and  to  me  has  aye  rather  the 
look  o'  innocence — but  maun  a  poet  or  orator — 

Tickler.  Be  neglected  on  account  of  Fozie  Tarn  ? 

Shepherd.  And  by  mony  o'  the  verra  same  creturs  that  at 
a  great  leeterary  sooper  the  nicht  afore  were  sae  affable  and 
sae  flatterin,  askin  me  to  receet  my  ain  verses,  and  sing  my  ain 
sangs — drinkin  the  health  o'  the  Author  o'  the  Queen's  Wake 
in  toddy  out  o'  his  ain  tumbler — shakin  hauns  at  partin,  and 

*  A  turnip  Ian  thorn. 


84  Tfie  Fife  Hens. 

in  the  confusion  at  the  foot  o'  the  stairs,  puttin  their  faces 
sae  near  mine,  that  their  sweet,  warm  breath  was  maist  like  a 
faint,  doubtfu'  kiss,  dirlin  *  to  ane's  very  heart — and  after  a' 
this,  and  mair  than  this,  only  think  o'  being  clean  forgotten, 
overlooked,  or  despised  for  the  sake  o'  Fozie  Tarn  ! 

Tickler.  We  may  have  our  revenge.  Wait  till  you  -find 
him  in  plain  clothes — on  half-pay,  James,  or  sold  out — and 
then,  like  Romeo,  when  the  play  is  over,  and  the  satin 
breeches  off,  he  walks  behind  the  scenes,  no  better  than  a 
tavern-waiter,  or  a  man-mill iner's  apprentice. 

Shepherd.  There's  some  comfort  in  that,  undoubtedly. — • 
Are  the  Fife  hens  lay  in  ? 

North.  Yes,  James,  and  Tapitoury  is  sitting. 

Shepherd.  That's  richt.  Weel,  o'  a'  the  how-towdies  I 
ever  ate,  yon  species  is  the  maist  truly  gigantic.  I  could  hae 
taen  my  Bible-oath  that  they  were  turkeys.  Then  I  thocht, 
"  Surely  they  maun  be  capons  ; "  but  when  I  howked  into 
the  inside  o'  ane  o'  them,  and  brought  out  a  spoonfu'  o'  yel 
low  eggs,  frae  the  size  o'  a  peppercorn  to  that  o'  a  boy's 
bools,  t  and  up  to  the  bulk  o'  a  ba'  o'  thread,  thinks  1  to  my- 
sel,  "  Sure  aneuch  they  are  hens,"  and  close  upon  the  layin. 
Maist  a  pity  to  kill  them  ! 

North.  James,  you  shall  have  a  dozen  eggs  to  set,  and 
future  ages  will  wonder  at  the  poultry  of  the  Forest.  Did 
you  ever  see  a  capercailzie  ? 

Shepherd.  Never.  They  have  been  extinct  in  Scotland  for 
fifty  years.  But  the  truth  is,  Mr.  North,  that  all  domesticated 
fowl  would  live  bra  wly  if  turned  out  in  to  the  wilds  and  woods. 
They  might  lose  in  size,  but  they  would  gain  in  sweetness — 
a  wild  sweetness — caught  frae  leaves  and  heather-berries,  and 
the  products  o'  desert  places,  that  are  blooming  like  the  rose. 
A  tame  turkey  wad  be  a  wild  ane  in  sax  months  ;  and  oh. 

*  Dirlin—  thrilling.  1  Bools— marbles. 


Tickler  s  Melancholy.  85 

sir !  it  wad  be  gran'  sport  to  see  and  hear  a  great  big  bub 
bly-jock*  gettin  on  the  wing  in  a  wood,  wi'  a  loud  gobble, 
gobble,  gobble,  redder  than  ordinar  in  the  face,  and  the  ugly 
feet  o'  him  danglin  aneath  his  heavy  hinder-end,  till  the  hail 
brought  him  down  with  a  thud  and  a  squelch  amang  the  as 
tonished  pointers-! 

North.  You  seem  melancholy,  Tickler — a  penny  for  your 
thoughts. 

Tickler.  I  am  depressed  under  the  weight  of  an  unwritten 
article.  That  everlasting  Magazine  of  yours  embitters  my 
existence.  Oh  that  there  were  but  one  month  in  the  year 
without  a  Blackwood  ! 

Shepherd.  Or  rather  a  year  in  ane's  life  without  it,  that  a 
body  micht  hae  leisure  to  prepare  for  anither  warld.  Hoo 
the  Numbers  accumulate  on  the  shelve  o'  ane's  leebrary  !  I 
begin  to  think  they  breed.  Then  a  dizzen  or  twa  are  maist- 
ly  lyiii  on  the  drawers-head — twice  as  mony  mair  in  the 
neuks  o'  rooms,  up  and  down  stairs — the  servants  get  hand 
o'  them  in  the  kitchen — and  ye  cauna  open  the  press  to  tak 
a  dram,  but  there's  the  face  o'  Geordy  Buchanan. 

Tickler.  My  dear  Shepherd,  you  are  a  happy  man  in  the 
Forest,  beyond  the  clutches  and  the  clack  of  an  Editor.  But 
here  am  I  worried  to  death  by  devils,  from  the  tenth  to  the 
twentieth  of  every  month.  I  wish  I  was  dead. 

Shepherd.  You  dinna  wush  ony  sic  thing,  Mr.  Tickler. 
That  appeteet  o'  yours  is  worth  five  thousan'  a  year.  0 
man  !  it  wad  be  a  sair  pity  to  dee  wi'  sic  an  appeteet ! 

[  Clock  strikes  ten — -folding -doors fly  open,  and  the  Tria 
Lumina  Scotorum  sit  down  to  supper. 


VII. 

AT  THE  LODGE  IN  SUMMER. 

Scene, — Buchanan  Lodge — Porch.      Time, — Afternoon. 

NORTH. — TICKLER. — SHEPHERD. 

« 

Shepherd.  What  a  changed  warld,  sirs,  since  that  April 
forenoon  we  druv  doun  to  the  Lodge  in  a  cotch  I  I  couldna 
but  pity  the  puir  Spring. 

Tickler.  Not  a  primrose  to  salute  his  feet  that  shivered  in 
the  snow-wreath. 

North.  Not  a  lark  to  hymn  his  advent  in  the  uncertain 
sunshine. 

Shepherd.  No  a  bit  butterflee  on  its  silent  waver,  meeting 
the  murmur  of  the  straightforward  bee. 

Tickler.  In  vain  Spring  sought  his  Flora,  in  haunts  be 
loved  of  old,  on  the  banks  of  the  shaded  rivulet — 

North.  Or  in  nooks  among  the  rocky  mountains — 

Shepherd.  Or  oases  among  the  heather — 

Tickler.  Or  parterres  of  grove-guarded  gardens — 

North.  Or  within  the  shadow  of  veranda — 

Shepherd.  Or  forest  glade,  where  move  the  antlers  of  the 
unhunted  red  deer. — In  siccan  bonny  spats  hae  I  often  seen 
the  Spring,  like  a  doubtfu'  glimmer  o'  sunshine,  appearing 
and  disappearing  frae  amang  the  birk-trees,  twenty  times 


The  Hackney  Coach.  87 

in  the  course  o'  an  April  day. — But,  oh !  sirs,  you  was  just 
a  maist  detestable  forenoon, — and  as  for  the  hackney- 
cotch — 

Tickler.  The  meanest  of  miseries  ! 

Shepherd.  It's  waur  than  sleepin  in  damp  sheets.  You 
haena  sat  twa  hunder  yards  till  your  breeks  are  glued  to  the 
clammy  seat,  that  fin's*  saft  and  hard  aneath  you  at  ane  and 
the  same  time,  in  a  maist  unaccountable  manner.  The  auld, 
cracked,  stained,  faded,  tarnished,  red  leather  lining  stinks 
like  a  tan-yard.  Gin  you  want  to  let  down  the  window,  or 
pu't  up,  it's  a'  alike  ;  you  keep  rugging  at  the  lang  slobbery 
worsted  till  it  comes  aff  wi'  a  tear  in  your  haun,  and  leaves 
you  at  the  mercy  o'  wind  and  weather, — then  what  a  sharp 
and  continual  rattle  o'  wheels !  far  waur  than  a  cart ;  in 
tolerable  aneuch  ower  the  macadam,  but  Lord  hae  mercy  on 
us  when  you're  on  the  causeway  !  you  could  swear  the 
wheels  are  o'  different  sizes  ;  up  wi'  the  tae  side,  doun  wi'  the 
tither,  sae  that  nae  man  can  be  sufficiently  sober  to  keep  his 
balance.  Puch  !  puch !  what  dung-like  straw  aneath  your 
soles ;  and  as  for  the  roof,  sae  laigh  that  you  canna  keep  on 
your  hat,  or  it'll  be  dunshed  down  atower  your  ee-brees  ;  then, 
if  there's  sax  or  eight  o'  you  in  ae  fare — -  f 

Tickler.  Why  don't  you  keep  your  own  carriage,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  So  I  do — a  gig ;  but  when  I  happen  to  for 
gather  wi'  sic  scrubs  as  you,  that  grudge  the  expense  o'  a 
yeckipage  o'  their  ain,  I  maun  submit  to  a  glass-cotch  and  a' 
its  abominations. 

North.  How  do  you  like  that  punch,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  It's  rather  ower  sair  iced,  I  jalouse,  and  will  be 

•  Fin's— feels. 

t  This  is  a  faithful  description  of  the  old  hackney-coach— a  very  different 
Vehicle  from  the  smart  broughams  which  now  ply  upon  our  streets. 


88  The  Inebriety  of  the  Sober. 

apt  to  gie  ane  the  toothache  ;  but  it  has  a  gran'  taste,  and  a 
maist  seducin  smell. — Oh !  man,  that's  a  bonny  ladle  !  and 
you  hae  a  nice  way  o'  steerin  !  Only  half-fu',  if  you  please, 
sir,  for  thae  wineglasses  are  perfect  tummlers,  and  though 
the  drink  seems  to  be,  when  you  are  preein't,  as  innocent  as 
the  dew  o'  lauchin  lassie's  lip,  yet  it's  just  as  dangerous,  and 
leads  insensibly  on,  by  littles  and  wees,  to  a  state  o'  uncon 
scious  intoxication. 

Tickler.  I  never  saw  you  the  worse  o'  liquor  in  my  life, 
James. 

Shepherd.  Nor  me  you. 

North.  None  but  your  sober  men  ever  get  drunk. 

Shepherd.  I've  observed  that  many  a  thousan'  times ;  just 
as  nane  but  your  excessively  healthy  men  ever  die.  When 
e'er  I  hear  in  the  kintra  o'  ony  man's  being  killed  aff  his 
horse,  I  ken  at  once  that  he's  a  sober  coof ,  that's  been  gettin 
himsel  drunk  at  Selkirk  or  Ha  wick,  and  sweein  aff  at  a  sharp 
turn  ower  the  bank,  he  has  played  wallop  into  the  water, 
or  is  aiblins  been  fun'  lyin  in  the  middle  o'  the  road,  wi'  his 
neck  dislocate,  the  doctors  canna  tell  hoo  ;  or  ayont  the  wa' 
wi'  his  harns  *  sticking  on  the  coupin-stane. 

North.  Or,  foot  in  stirrup,  and  face  trailing  the  pebbly 
mire,  swept  homewards  by  a  spanking  half-bred,  and  disen 
tangled  at  the  door  by  shriek  and  candle-light. 

Shepherd.  Had  he  been  in  the  habit  o'  takin  his  glass  like 
a  Christian,  he  wad  hae  ridden  like  a  Centaur ;  and  instead 
o'  havin  been  brought  hame  a  corp,  he  wuld  hae  been 
staggering  geyan  steady  into  the  parlor,  wi'  a'  the  weans 
ruggin  at  his  pouches  for  fairins,f  and  his  wife,  half  angry, 
half  pleased,  helpin  him  tidily  and  tenderly  aff  wi'  his  big 
boots ;  and  then  by  and  by  mixing  him  the  bowster  cup— 
and  then — 

*  Harns— brain»  t  Fairins— presents. 


The  Inebriety  of  the  Sober.  89 

Tickler.  Your  sober  man,  on  every  public  occasion  of 
festivity,  is  uniformly  seen,  soon  after  "  the  Duke  of  York 
and  the  Army,"  led  off  between  two  waiters,  with  his  face  as 
white  as  the  table-cloth,  eyes  upwards,  and  a  ghastly  smile 
about  his  gaping  mouth,  that  seems  to  threaten  unutterable 
things  before  he  reach  the  lobby. 

North.  He  turns  round  his  head  at  the  "  three  times  three," 
with  a  loyal  hiccup,  and  is  borne  off  a  speechless  martyr  to 
the  cause  of  Hanoverian  Succession. 

Shepherd.  I  wad  rather  get  fou  five  hunder  times  in  an 
ordinary  way  like,  than  ance  to  expose  mysel  sae  afore  my 
fellow-citizens.  Yet,  meet  my  gentleman  next  forenoon  in 
the  Parliament  House,  or  in  a  bookseller's  shop,  or  in  Princes 
Street,  arm-in-arm  wi'  a  minister,  and  he  hauds  up  his  face 
as  if  naething  had  happened,  speaks  o'  the  pleasant  party, 
expresses  his  regret  at  having  been  obliged  to  leave  it  so 
soon,  at  the  call  of  a  client,  and,  ten  to  ane,  denounces  you 
to  his  cronies  for  a  drunkard,  who  exposes  himself  in  com 
pany,  and  is  getting  constantly  into  scrapes  that  promise  a 
fatal  termination. 

North.  Hush  !  The  minstrels  ! 

Shepherd.  Maist  delightfu'  music !  O  sir,  hoo  it  sweetens, 
and  strengthens,  and  merrifies  as  it  comes  up  the  avenue ! 
Are  they  Foreigners  ? 

North.  An  itinerant  family  of  Savoyards. 

Shepherd.  Look  at  them — look  at  them !  What  an  out 
landish,  toosy-headed,  wee  sunbrunt  deevil  o'  a  lassie  that, 
playing  her  antics,  heel  and  head,  wi'  the  tambourine.  Yon's 
a  darlin  wi'  her  thoom  coquet-coquettin  on  the  guitaur,  and 
makin  music  without  kennin't — a'  the  while  she  is  curtshyin 
and  singin  wi'  lauchin  rosy  mouth,  and  then  blushin  be 
cause  we're  glowering  on  her,  and  lettin  fa'  her  big  black  eec 
on  the  grun',  as  if  a  body  were  asking  for  a  kiss  !  That  nitun 


90  TJie  Savoyard  Minstrels. 

be  her  younger  sister,  as  dark  as  a  gypsey*  that  hafflins 
lassie  wi'  the  buddin  breast,  her  that's  tinklin  on  the  triangle 
that  surely  maun  be  o'  silver,  sae  dewy  sweet  the  soun' ! 
Safe  us,  only  look  at  the  auld  man  and  his  wife !  There's 
mony  a  comical  auld  woman  in  Scotland,  especially  in  the 
Heelans,  but  I  never  saw  the  match  o'  that  ane.  She  maun 
be  mony  hunder  year  auld,  and  yet  her  petticoats  as  short  as 
a  play-actress  dancin  on  the  stage.  Gude  legs  too — thin 
ankles,  and  a  thick  calve — girl,  wife,  and  witch  a'  in  ane  ; 
and  only  think  o't, — playin  on  a  base  drum  !  Savyaurds ! 
It'll  be  a  mountainous  kintra  theirs,  for  sic  a  lang-backed, 
short-thee'd,  sinewy  and  muscular,  hap-and-s tap- jump  o'  a 
bouncin  body  as  that  man  o'  hers,  wi'  the  swarthy  face  and 
head  harlequinaddin  on  the  Pan's-pipes,  could  never  hae  been 
bred  and  born  on  a  flat — But  whish — whish — they're  be 
ginning  to  play  something  pathetic  ! 

Tickler.  Music  is  the  universal  language. 

Shepherd.  It's  a  lament  that  the  puir  wandering  creturs 
are  singin  and  playin  about  their  native  land.  I  wush  I 
may  hae  ony  change  in  my  pocket — 

Tickler.  They  are  as  happy  in  their  own  way  as  we  are  in 
ours,  my  dear  James.  May  they  find  their  mountain  cottage 
unharmed  by  wind  or  weather  on  their  return,  and  let  us  join 
our  little  subscription — 

Shepherd.  There's  a  five-shillin  crown- piece  for  mine. 

North.  And  mine. 

Tickler.  And  mine. 

Shepherd.  I'll  gie't  to  them. — (SHEPHERD  leaps  out.)-~- 
There,  my  bonny  bloomin  brunette  wi'  the  raven  hair,  that 
are  just  perfectly  beutifu',  wanderin  wi'  your  melody  name 
less  but  happy  ;  and  may  nae  hand  untie  its  snood  till  your 
bridal  night  in  the  hut  on  the  hill,  when  the  evening 
marriage  dance  and  song  are  hushed  and  silent,  and  love 


The  Scotch  Puppy.  91 

and  innocence  in  their  lawfu'  delight  lie  in  each  other's  arms. 
— If  your  sweetheart's  a  shepherd,  so  am  I — 

Tickler.  Hallo,  Hogg — no  whispering.  Here,  give  each 
of  them  a  tumbler  of  punch,  and  God  be  with  the  joyous 
Savoyards. 

Shepherd.  Did  you  see,  sirs,  hoo  desperate  thirsty  they  a* 
were — nae  wonner,  singin  frae  morn  to  night  a'  up  and  doun 
the  dusty  streets  and  squares.  Yet  they  askt  for  naething, 
contented  creturs  ! — Hear  till  them  siugin  awa  doun  the 
avenue  "God  save  the  King,"  in  compliment  to  us  ana  our 
country.  A  weel-timed  interlude  this,  Mr.  North,  and  it  has 
putten  me  in  a  gran'  mood  for  a  sang. 

North  and  Tickler.  A  song — a  song-«-a  song ! 

(SHEPHERD  sings  "  My  bonnie  Mary.") 

Tickler.  Scotch  and  English  puppies  make  a  striking  con 
trast.  The  Scotch  puppy  sports  philosophical,  and  sets  to 
rights  Locke,  Smith,  Stewart,  and  Reid.  lu  his  minority 
he  is  as  solemn  as  a  major  of  two-score — sits  at  table,  even 
during  dinner,  with  an  argumentative  face,  and  in  a  logical 
position — and  gives  out  his  sentences  deliberately,  as  if  he 
were  making  a  payment  in  sovereigns. 

Shepherd.  Oh,  man,  how  I  do  hate  sic  formal  young  chiels 
— reason,  reason,  reasoning  on  things  that  you  maun  see 
whether  you  will  or  no,  even  gin  you  were  to  shut  your  een 
wi'  a'  your  force,  and  then  cover  them  wi'  a  bandage, — chiels 
that  are  employed  frae  morning  to  nicht  colleckin  facks 
out  o'  books,  in  that  dark,  dirty  dungeon,  the  Advocates' 
Leebrary,  and  that'll  no  hesitate,  wi'  a  breach  o'  a'  gude 
manners,  to  correct  your  verra  chronology  when  you're  in 
the  middle  o'  a  story  that  may  hae  happened  equally  weel 
ony  day  frae  the  flood  to  the  last  judgment — chiels  that 
quote  Mr.  Jeffrey  and  Hairy  Cobrun,  and  even  on  their 
first  introduction  to  Englishers,  keep  up  a  clatter  about  the 


92  TJie  Castle  of  Indolence. 

Ooter  House — chiels  that  think  it  a  great  maitter  to  spoot 
aff  by  heart  an  oraution  on  the  corn  laws,  in  that  puir  puckit 
Gogotha,  the  Speculative  Society,  and  treat  you,  ower  the 
nits  and  prunes,  wi'  skreeds  o'  College  Essays  on  Syllogism, 
and  what's  ca'd  the  Association  o'  Ideas — chiels  that  would 
rather  be  a  Judge  o'  the  Court  o'  Session  than  the  Great 
Khan  o'  Tartary  himsel — and  look  prouder  when  taking 
their  forenoon's  airing  alang  Princes  Street,  on  a  bit  shachlin* 
ewe-necked  powney,  coft  frae  a  sportin  flesher,  than  Saladin, 
at  the  head  of  ten  thousand  chosen  chivalry,  shaking  the 
desert — chiels — 

North.  Stop,  James — just  look  at  Tickler  catching  flies. 
Shepherd.  Sound  Asleep,  as  I'm  a  Contributor.  Oh  !  man 
— I  wush  we  had  a  saut  herrin  to  put  intil  the  mooth  o' 
him,  or  a  burned  cork  to  gie  him  mistashies,  or  a  string  o' 
ingans  to  fasten  to  the  nape  o'  his  neck  by  way  o'  a  pigtail, 
or — 

North.  Shamming  Abraham. 

Shepherd.  Na — he's  in  a  sort  o'  dwam — and  nae  wonner, 
for  the  Lodge  is  just  a  very  Castle  o'  Indolence.  Thae  broad 
vine  leaves  hingin  in  the  veranda  in  the  breathless  heat,  or 
stirrin  when  the  breeze  sughs  by,  like  water-lilies  tremblin 
in  the  swell  o'  the  blue  loch-water,  inspire  a  dreamin  somno 
lency  that  the  maist  waukrifef  canna  a'thegither  resist ;  and 
the  bonny  twilight,  chequering  the  stane  floor  a'  round  and 
round  the  shady  Lodge,  keeps  the  thochts  confined  within 
its  glimmerin  boundaries,  till  every  cause  o'  disturbance  is 
afar  off,  and  the  life  o'  man  gets  tranquil  as  a  wean's  rest  in 
its  cradle,  or  amang  the  gowans  on  a  sunny  knowe  ;  sae  let 
us  speak  lown  and  no  wauken  him,  for  he's  buried  in  the 
umbrage  o'  imagination,  and  weel  ken  I  what  a  heavenly  thing 
it  is  to  soom  doun  the  silent  stream  o'  that  haunted  world. 

•  Shachlin— shuffling.  f   Waulrife— watchful. 


A  Portrait  of  Tickler.  93 

North.  What  say  you  to  that  smile  on  his  face,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  It's  a  gey  wicked  ane — I'm  thinkin  he's  after 
some  mischief.  I'll  put  this  raisin-stalk  up  his  nose.  Mercy 
on  us.  what  a  sneeze  ! 

Tickler.  (  starting  and  looking  round  ).  Ha !  Hogg,  my 
dear  fellow,  how  are  you  ?  Soft — soft — I  have  it — why,  that 
hotchpotch,  and  that  afternoon  sun — 

N<>rth.  James,  now  that  you  have  seen  us  in  summer,  how 
do  you  like  the  Lodge  ? 

Shepherd.  There's  no  sic  anither  house,  Mr.  North,  baith 
for  elegance  and  comfort,  in  a'  Scotland. 
.    North.  In  my  old  age,  James,  I  think  myself  not  altogether 
unentitled  to  the  luxuries  of  learned  leisure. — Do  you  find 
that  sofa  easy  and  commodious  ? 

Shepherd.  Easy  and  commodious  !  what !  it  has  a'  the  saft- 
ness  o'  a  bed,  and  a'  the  coolness  o'  a  bank  ;  yielding  rest 
without  drowsiness,  and  without  snoring  repose. 

Tickler.  No  sofa  like  a  chair !  See,  James,  how  I  am  ly 
ing  and  sitting  at  the  same  time  !  carelessly  diffused,  yet — 

Shepherd.  You're  a  maist  extraordinary  feegur,  Mr.  Tick 
ler,  I  humbly  confess  that,  wi'  your  head  imbedded  in  a  cush 
ion,  and  your  een  fixed  on  the  roof  like  an  astronomer ; 
and  your  endless  legs  stretched  out  to  the  extremities  o'  the 
yeai  th  ;  and  your  lang  arms  hanging  down  to  the  verra 
floor,  atower  the  bend  o'  the  chair-settee,  and  only  lift  up,  wi'  a 
magnificent  wave,  to  bring  the  bottom  o'  the  glass  o'  cauld 
punch  to  rest  upon  your  chin ;  and  wi'  that  tamboured  waist 
coat  o'  the  fashion  o'  aughty-aught,  like  a  meadow  yellow 
wi'  dandylions  ;  and  breeks — 

Tickler.  Check  your  hand,  and  change  your  measure,  my 
dear  Shepherd. — Oh  !  for  a  portrait  of  North  ! 

Shepherd.  I  daurna  try't,  for  his  ee  masters  me ;  and  1 
fear  to  tak  the  same  leeberties  wi'  Mr.  North  that  I  sometimes 


94  The  Shores  of  the  Firth. 

venture  upon  wi'  you,  Mr.  Tickler.  Yet,  oh,  man !  I  like 
him  weel  in  that  black  neckerchief  ;  it  brings  out  his  face 
grandly — and  the  green  coat  o'  the  Royal  Archers  gies  him 
a  Robin-IIoodish  character,  that  makes  ane's  imagination 
think  o'  the  umbrage  o'  auldoaks,  and  the  glimmering  silence 
o'  forests. 

Tickler.  He  blushes. 

Shepherd.  That  he  does — and  I  like  to  see  the  ingenuous 
blush  o'  bashfu'  modesty  on  a  wrinkled  cheek.  It  proves 
that  the  heart's-blood  is  warm  and  free,  and  the  circulation 
vigorous.  Deil  tak  me,  Mr.  North,  if  I  dinna  think  you're 
something  like  his  Majesty  the  King. 

North.  I  am  proud  that  you  love  the  Lodge.  There !  a 
bold  breeze  from  the  sea !  Is  not  that  a  pleasant  rustle, 
James  ? — and  lo  !  every  sail  on  the  Firth  is  dancing  on  the 
blue  bosom  of  the  waters,  and  brightening  like  sea-mews  in 
the  sunshine ! 

Shepherd.  After  a',  in  het  wather,  there's  naething  like  a 
marine  villa.  What  for  dinna  ye  big  *  a  Yott  ? 

North.  My  sailing  days  are  over,  James  ;  but  mine  is  now 
the  ship  of  Fancy,  who  can  go  at  ten  knots  in  a  dead  calm, 
and  carry  her  sky-scrapers  in  a  storm. 

Shepherd.  Nae  wonder,  after  sic  a  life  o'  travel  by  sea  and 
land,  you  should  hae  found  a  hame  at  last,  and  sic  a  harne  ! 
A'  the  towers,  and  spires,  and  pillars,  and  pinnacles,  and 
bewilderments  o'  blue  house-roofs,  seen  frae  the  tae  front 
through  amang  the  leafy  light  o'  interceptin  trees — and  frae 
the  tither,  where  we  are  noo  sitting,  only  here  and  there  a 
bit  sprinklin  o'  villas,  and  then  atower  the  grove-heads,  seem 
ing  sae  thick  and  saft  that  you  think  you  might  lie  down  on 
them  and  tak  a  sleep,  the  murmuring  motion  o'  the  never 
weary  sea !  Oh,  Mr.  North,  that  you  would  explain  to  me 
the  nature  o'  the  tides ! 


Tickler  s  Experience  of  Ghosts.  95 

North.  When  the  moon — 

Shepherd.  Stap,  stap;  I  couldna  command  my  attention 
wi'  yon  bonny  brig  huggin  the  shores  o'  Inchkeith*  sae  lov 
ingly — at  first  I  thocht  she  was  but  a  breakin  wave. 

North.  Wave,  cloud,  bird,  sunbeam,  shadow  or  ship — often 
know  I  not  one  from  the  other,  James,  when  half-sleeping, 
half- waking,  in  the  debateable  and  border  land  between  re 
alities  and  dreams, — 

"  My  weary  length  at  noontide  would  I  stretch, 
And  muse  upon  the  world  that  wavers  by." 

Tickler.  I  never  had  any  professed  feeling  of  the  super  or 
preter-natural  in  a  printed  book.  Very  early  in  life  I  dis 
covered  that  a  ghost,  who  had  kept  me  in  a  cold  sweat  during 
a  whole  winter's  midnight,  was  a  tailor  who  haunted  the 
house,  partly  through  love,  and  partly  through  hunger,  being 
enamored  of  my  nurse,  and  of  the  fat  of  ham  which  she 
gave  him  with  mustard,  between  two  thick  shaves t  of  a  quar 
tern  loaf,  and  afterwards  a  bottle  of  small  beer  to  wash  it 
down,  before  she  yielded  him  the  parting  kiss.  After  that  I 
slept  soundly,  and  had  a  contempt  for  ghosts,  which  I  retain 
to  this  clay. 

Shepherd.  Weel,  it's  very  different  wi'  me.  I  should  be 
feared  yet  even  for  the  ninth  pairt  o'  a  ghost,  and  I  fancy  a 
tailor  has  nae  mair  ; — but  I'm  no  muckle  affeckit  by  reading 
about  them — an  oral  tradition  out  o'  the  mouth  o'  an  auld 
grey-headed  man  or  woman  is  far  best,  for  then  you  canna 
dout  the  truth  o'  the  tale,  unless  ye  dout  a'  history  thegither, 
and  then,  to  be  sure,  you'll  end  in  universal  skepticism. 

North.  Don't  you  admire  the  romances  of  the  Enchantress 
of  Udolpho  ? 

Shepherd.  Ihaenae  doubt,  sir,  that  had  T  read  Udolpho  and 
her  ither  romances  in  my  boyish  days,  that  my  hair  would 

*  An  island  in  the  Firth  of  Forth,  near  Edinburgh.  t  Shaces— slic<»8 


96  The  Shepherd  on  Ghosts. 

hae  stood  on  end  like  that  o'  ither  folk,  for,  by  nature  and 
education  baith,  ye  ken,  I'm  just  excessive  superstitious. 
But  afore  her  volumes  fell  into  my  hauns,  my  soul  had  been 
frightened  by  a'  kinds  of  traditionary  terrors,  and  mony 
hunder  times  hae  I  maist  swarfed  *  wi'  fear  in  lonesome  spats 
in  muirs  and  woods,  at  midnicht,  when  no  a  leevin  thing  was 
inovin  but  mysel  and  the  great  moon.  Indeed,  I  canna  say 
that  I  ever  fan'  mysel  alane  in  the  hush  o'  darkened  nature, 
without  a  beatin  at  my  heart ;  for  a  sort  o'  spiritual  presence 
aye  hovered  about  me — a  presence  o'  something  like  and 
unlike  my  aiu  being — at  times  felt  to  be  solemn  and  nae 
inair — at  times  sae  awfu'  that  I  wushed  mysel  nearer  ingle- 
licht — and  ance  or  twice  in  my  lifetime,  sae  terrible  that  I 
could  hae  prayed  to  sink  down  into  the  moss,  sae  that  I 
micht  be  saved  frae  the  quaking  o'  that  ghostly  wilderness 
o'  a  world  that  wasna  for  flesh  and  bluid ! 

North.  Look — James — look — what  a  sky  ! 

Shepherd.  There'll  be  thunder  the  morn.  These  are  the 
palaces  o'  the  thunder,  and  before  daybreak  every  window 
will  pour  forth  lichtnin.  Mrs.  Radcliffe  has  weel  described 
mony  sic,  but  I  have  seen  some  that  can  be  remembered, 
but  never,  never  painted  by  mortal  pen ;  for  after  a',  what  is 
ony  description  by  us  puir  creturs  o'  the  works  o'  the  Great 
God? 

North.  Perhaps  it  is  a  pity  that  Mrs.  Radcliffe  never  in 
troduced  into  her  stories  any  real  ghosts. 

Shepherd.  I  canna  just  a'thegither  think  sae.  Gin  you 
introduce  a  real  ghost  at  a',  it  maun  appear  but  seldom — • 
seldom,  and  never  but  on  some  great  or  dread  account — as 
the  ghost  o'  Hamlet's  father.  Then,  what  difficulty  in  makin 
it  speak  with  a  tomb  voice  !  At  the  close  o'  the  tale,  the 
mind  would  be  shocked  unless  the  dead  had  burst  its  cere 

*  SwarJ'ed — swooned. 


The  Shepherd  on  Ghosts.  97 

ments  for  some  end  which  the  dead  alane  could  have  accom 
plished — unless  the  catastrophe  were  worthy  an  Apparition. 
How  few  events  and  how  few  actors  would,  as  the  story  shut 
itself  up.  be  felt  to  have  been  of  such  surpassing  moment  as 
to  have  deserved  the  very  laws  o'  nature  to  have  been  in  a 
manner  changed  for  their  sakes,  and  shadows  brought  frae 
amang  the  darkness  o'  burial-places,  that  seem  to  our 
imaginations  locked  up  frae  a'  communion  wi'  the  breathin 
world ! 

North.  In  highest  tragedy,  a  Spirit  may  be  among  the 
dramatis  personce — for  the  events  come  all  on  processionally, 
and  under  a  feeling  of  fate. 

Shepherd.  There,  too,  you  see  the  ghost ;  and  indifferently 
personated  though  it  may  be,  the  general  hush  proves  that 
religion  is  the  deepest  principle  o'  our  nature,  and  that  even 
the  vain  shows  o'  a  theatre  can  be  sublimed  by  an  awe-struck 
sadness,  when,  revisiting  the  glimpses  o'  the  moon,  and  makin 
night  hideous,  comes  glidin  in  and  awa  in  cauld  unriugin 
armor,  or  unsubstantial  vapor,  a  being  whose  eyes  ancesaw 
the  cheeriu'  sunlight,  and  whose  footsteps  ance  brought  out 
echoes  frae  the  flowery  earth. 

Tickler.  James,  be  done  with  your  palavering  about  ghosts, 
and  "  gie  us  anither  sang." 

North.  Come,  I  will  sing  you  one  of  Allan's. 

Shepherd.  Huts,  ye  never  sung  a  sang  i'  your  life — at  least 
never  that  I  heard  tell  o'  ; — but,  to  be  sure,  you're  a  maist 
extraordinary  cretur,  and  can  do  onything  you  hae  a  mind  to 
try. 

North.  My  voice  is  rather  cracked  and  tremulous — but  I 
have  sung  Scotch  airs,  James,  of  old,  with  Urbani.  (Sings 
"  My  ain  countree.") 

Shepherd.  Weel,  I  never  heard  the  like  o'  that  in  a'  my 
days.  Deevil  tak  me  gin  there  be  sic  a  perfectly  beautiful 


98  G-ood  Night. 

singer  in  a'  Scotland.  I  prefer  you  to  baith  Peter  Hill  and 
David  Wylie,  *  and  twa  bonnier  singers  you'll  no  easier  hear 
in  "  house  or  ha',  by  coal  or  candle  licht."  But  do  you  ken, 
I'm  desperate  sleepy. 

Tickler.  Let's  off  to  roost. 

North.  Stop  till  I  ring  for  candles. 

Shepherd.  Cawnels  !  and  sic  a  moon  !  It  wad  be  perfect 
blasphemy — dounricht  atheism.  But  hech,  sirs,  it's  het,  an' 
I'se  sleep  without  the  sark  the  nicht. 

North.  Without  a  sark,  James  !    "  a  mother-naked  man  !  " 

Shepherd.  I'm  a  bachelor,  ye  ken,  the  noo,  sae  can  tak  my 
ain  way  o't — Gude  nicht,  sir — gude  nicht.  We've  really 
been  verra  pleasant,  and  our  meetin  has  been  maist  as  agree 
able  as  ane  o'  the 

NOCTES  AMBROSIAN^. 

•Peter  Hill  Is  spoken  of  in  the  "  Chaldee  MS."   as  "a  gweet  singer." 
David  Wylie  was  one  of  tlie  circuit  clerks  of  the  Court  of  Justiciary. 


VIII. 

IN    WHICH  THE  SHEPHERD    IS  HANGED    AND  BE 
HEADED. 

MR.  TICKLER'S  smaller  Dining-room — Soutkside. 
SHEPHERD. — MR.  NORTH. — MR.  TICKLER. 

Shepherd.  We've  just  had  a  perfec  denner,  Mr.  Tickler — 
neither  ae  dish  ower  mony,  nor  ae  dish  ower  few.  Twa 
coorses  is  aneuch  for  ony  Christian — and  as  for  frute  after 
fude,  it's  a  dounricht  abomination,  and  coagulates  on  the 
stamach  like  sour  cruds.  I  aye  like  best  to  devoor  frute  in 
the  forenoons,  in  gardens  by  mysel,  daunering*  at  my  leisure 
frae  bush  to  bush,  and  frae  tree  to  tree,  pu'iii  awa  at  straw 
berries,  or  rasps,  or  grozets,  or  cherries,  or  aipples,  or  peers, 
or  plooms,  or  aiblins  at  young  green  peas,  shawps  f  an'  a',  or 
wee  juicy  neeps,  that  melt  in  the  mouth  o'  their  ain  accord 
without  chewin,  like  kisses  of  vegetable  maitter. 

Tickler.  Do  you  ever  catch  a  tartar,  James,  in  the  shape 
o'  a  wasp,  that — 

Shepherd.  Counfound  thae  deevils  incarnate,  for  they're  the 
curse  o'  a  het  simmer.  O'  a'  God's  creturs,  the  wasp  is  the 
only  ane  that's  eternally  out  o'  temper.  There's  nae  sic 
thing  as  pleasin  him.  In  the  gracious  sunshine,  when  a'  the 
bit  bonny  burdies  are  singing  sae  cantily,  and  stopping  for 
half  a  minute  at  a  time,  noo  and  than,  to  set  richt  wi'  their 

•  Daunering— saunter!  t  Shawps— husks. 


100  A  Shower  of  Wasps. 

bills  a  feather  that's  got  rumpled  by  sport  or  spray — when 
the  bees  are  at  wark,  murmuring  in  their  gauzy  flight, 
although  no  gauze,  indeed,  be  comparable  to  the  filaments  o' 
their  woven  wings,  or  clinging  silently  to  the  flowers,  sook, 
sookin  out  the  hinny-dew,  till  their  verra  doups  dirl  wi'  delight 
— when  a'  the  flees  that  are  ephemeral,  and  weel  contented 
wi'  the  licht  and  the  heat  o'  ae  single  sun,  keep  dancin  in 
their  burnished  beauty,  up  and  down,  and  to  and  fro,  and 
backwards  and  forwards,  and  sideways,  in  millions  upon 
millions,  and  yet  ane  never  joistling  anither,  but  a'  har 
moniously  blended  together  in  amity,  like  imagination's 
thochts, — why,  amid  this  "  general  dance  and  minstrelsy,"  in 
comes  a  shower  o'  infuriated  wasps,  red  het,  as  if  let  out  o'  a 
fiery -furnace,  pickin  quarrels  wi'  their  ain  shadows — then  roun' 
and  roun'  the  hair  o'  your  head,  bizzin  against  the  drum  o' 
your  ear,  till  you  think  they  are  in  at  the  ae  hole  and  out  at 
the  ither — back  again,  after  makin  a  circuit,  as  if  they  had 
repentit  o'  lettin  you  be  unharmed,  dashing  against  the  face 
o*  you  who  are  wishin  ill  to  nae  leevin  thing,  and,  although 
you  are  engaged  out  to  dinner,  stickin  a  lang  poishoned  stang 
in  just  below  your  ee,  that,  afore  you  can  rin  hame  frae  the 
garden,  swalls  up  to  a  fearsome  hicht,  making  you  on  that 
side  look  like  a  Blackamoor,  and  on  the  opposite  white  as 
death,  sae  intolerable  is  the  agony  frae  the  tail  of  the  yellow 
imp,  that,  according  to  his  bulk,  is  stronger  far  than  the 
Dragon  o'  the  Desert. 

Tickler.  I  detest  the  devils  most,  James,  when  I  get  them 
in  my  mouth.  Before  you  can  spit  them  out  the  evil  is 
done — your  tongue  the  size  of  that  of  a  rein-deer — or  your 
gullet,  once  wide  as  the  Gut  of  Gibraltar,  clogged  up  like  a 
canal  in  the  neighborhood  of  a  railroad. 

Shepherd.  As  for  speaking  in  sic  a  condition,  everybody 
but  yoursel  kens  it's  impossible,  and  wunner  to  hear  ye 


The  Shepherd  Hafiged.  101' 

tryiu't.  But  you'll  no  be  perswauded,  and  attempt  talking — 
every  motion  o'  the  muscles  bein'  as  bad  as  a  convulsion  o' 
hydrophobia,  and  the  best  soun'  ye  can  utter  waur  than  oiiy 
bark,  something  atween  a  grunt,  a  growl,  and  a  guller,  like 
the  skraich  o'  a  man  lyin  on  his  back,  and  dreamin  that  he's 
gaun  to  be  hanged. 

Tickler.  My  dear  James,  I  hope  you  have  had  that  dream  ? 
What  a  luxury ! 

Shepherd.  There's  nae  medium  in  my  dreams,  sir — heaven 
or  hell's  the  word.  But  oh !  that  hanging !  It's  the  warst 
job  o'  a',  and  gars  my  very  sowl  sicken  wi'  horror  for  sake  o' 
the  puir  deevils  that's  really  hanged  out  and  out,  bond  fide, 
wi'  a  tangible  tow,  and  a  hangman  that's  mair  than  a  mere 
apparition — a  pardoned  felon  wi'  creeshy  second-hand  cordu 
roy  breeks,  and  coat  short  at  the  cuffs,  sae  that  his  thick  hairy 
wrists  are  visible  when  he's  adjustin  the  halter,  hair  red,  red, 
yet  no  sae  red  as  his  bleared  een,  glarin  wi'  an  unaccountable 
fairceness — for,  Lord  hae  mercy  upon  us,  can  man  o'  woman 
born,  think  ye,  be  fairce  on  a  brither  when  handlin  his  wizen  * 
as  executioner,  and  hearin,  although  he  was  deaf,  the  knock- 
in  o'  his  distracted  heart,  that  wadna  break  for  a'  its  meesery, 
but,  like  a  watch  stoppin  when  it  gets  a  fa'  on  the  stanes,  in 
ae  minute  lies  quate  when  down  wi'  a  rummle  gangs  the  plat 
form  o'  the  scaffold,  and  the  soul  o'  the  son  o'  sin  and  sorrow 
is  instantly  in  presence  of  its  eternalJudge  ! 

North.  Pleasant  subject-matter  for  conversation  after 
dinner,  gentlemen.  In  my  opinion,  hanging — 

Shepherd.  Haud  your  tongue  about  hangin  ;  it's  discussed. 
Gin  you've  got  onything  to  say  about  beheadin,  let's  hear  you 
— for  I've  dreamt  o'  that,  too,  but  it  was  a  mere  flee-bite  to 
the  other  mode  o'  execution.  Last  time  I  was  beheaded,  it 
was  for  a  great  National  Conspiracy,  found  out  just  when 

*  Wizen— the  throat. 


102  TJie  Shepherd  Beheaded. 

the  mine  was  gaun  to  explode,  and  blaw  up  the  King  on  his 
throne,  the  constitution,  as  it  was  ca'd,  and  the  Kirk.  Do  ye 
want  to  hear  about  it  ? 

North.     Proceed,  you  rebel. 

Shepherd.  A'  the  city  sent  out  its  population  into  ae  michty 
square,  and  in  the  midst  thereof  was  a  scaffold  forty  feet  high, 
a'  hung  wi'  black  cloth,  and  open  to  a'  the  airts.*  A  block 
like  a  great  anvil,  only  made  o'  wood  instead  o'  aim,  was  in 
the  centre  o'  the  platform,  and  there  stood  the  headsman  wi' 
a  mask  on,  for  he  was  frichtened  I  wad  see  his  face,  sax  feet 
high  and  some  inches,  wi'  an  axe  ower  his  shouther,  and  his 
twa  naked  arms  o'  a  fearsome  thickness,  a'  crawlin  wi'  sinews, 
like  a  yard  o'  cable  to  the  sheet-anchor  o'  a  man-o'-war.  A 
hairy  fur  cap  towered  aboon  his  broos,  and  there  were  neither 
shoes  nor  stockings  on  his  braid  splay  feet,  juist  as  if  he  were 
gaun  to  dance  on  the  boards.  But  he  never  mudged — only 
I  saw  his  een  rollin  through  the  vizor,  and  they  were  baith 
bloodshot.  He  gied  a  gruesome  cough,  or  something  not 
unlike  a  lauch,  that  made  ice  o'  my  bluid ;  and  at  that  verra 
minute,  hands  were  laid  on  me,  I  kentna  by  whom  or  whither, 
and  shears  began  clipping  my  hair,  and  fingers  like  leeches 
creeped  about  my  neck,  and  then,  without  ony  further  vio 
lence,  but  rather  as  in  the  freedom  o'  my  ain  wull,  my  head 
was  lying  on  the  block,  and  I  heard  a  voice  praying,  till  a 
drum  drowned  it  and  the  groans  o'  the  multitude  together — 
and  then  a  hissin,  that,  like  the  sudden  east  wind,  had  moved 
the  verra  mournins  o'  the  scaffold. 

Tickler.  North,  put  about  the  bottle.  Will  you  never  bo 
cured  of  that  custom  of  detaining  the  crystals  ? 

North.  I  am  rather  squeamish — a  little  faintish  or  so. 
James,  your  good  health.  Now  proceed. 

Shepherd.     Damn  their  drums,  thocht  I,  they're  needless— 

*  Airts — points  of  the  compass. 


His  Speech  on  the  Scaffold.  103 

for  had  I  intended  to  make  a  speech,  would  I  not  have  deliv 
ered  it  afore  I  laid  down  ray  head  on  the  block  ?  As  for  the 
hissin,  I  kent  weel  aneuch  they  werena  hissin  me,  but  the 
Man  in  the  mask  and  the  big  hairy  fur-cap,  and  the  naked 
feet,  wi'  the  axe  in  his  hands  raised  up,  and  then  let  down 
again,  ance,  twice,  thrice,  measuring  the  spat  on  my  craig  * 
to  a  nicety,  that  wi'  ae  stroke  my  head  might  roll  over  into 
the  bloody  sawdust. 

Tickler.  Mr.  North,  Mr.  North — my  dear  sir,  are  you  ill  ? 
My  God,  who  could  have  thought  it ! — Hogg,  Christopher 
has  fainted  ! 

Shepherd.  Let  him  faint.  The  executioner  was  daunted, 
for  the  hiss  gaed  through  his  heart ;  and  thae  horrid  arms  o' 
his,  wi'  a'  their  knots  o'  muscle,  waxed  weak  as  the  willow- 
wands.  The  axe  fell  out  o'  his  hauns,  and  being  sharp,  its 
ain  wecht  drove  it  quivering  into  the  block,  and  close  to  my 
ear  the  verra  senseless  wud  gied  a  groan.  I  louped  up  on  to 
my  feet — I  cried  wi'  a  loud  voice,  "  Countrymen,  I  stand  here 
for  the  sacred  cause  of  Liberty  all  over  the  world!  " 

North  (reopening  his  eyes}.  "  The  cause  of  Liberty  all  over 
the  world  !  "  Who  gave  that  toast  ?  Hush — hush — where 
am  I  ?  What  is  this  ?  Is  that  you,  James  ?  What,  music  ? 
Bagpipes  ?  No — no — no — a  ringing  in  my  poor  old  ears.  I 
have  been  ill — I  feel  very,  very  ill.  Hark  you,  Tickler — 
hark  you — no  heeltaps,  I  suppose — "  The  cause  of  Liberty 
all  over  the  world  !  " 

Shepherd.  The  shouting  was  sublime.  Then  was  the  time 
for  a  speech — not  a  drum  dared  to  murmur.  With  the  ban 
dage  still  ower  my  een,  and  the  handkerchief  in  my  hand, 
which  I  had  forgotten  to  drap,  I  burst  out  into  such  a  torrent 
of  indignant  eloquence  that  the  Slaves  and  Tyrants  were  all 
tongue-tied,  lock-jawed,  before  me ;  and  I  knew  that  my  voice 

*  Craig— neck. 


104  The  Scene  at  the  Execution 

would  echo  to  the  furthermost  regions  of  the  earth,  with  fear 
of  change  perplexing  monarchs,  and  breaking  the  chains  of 
the  shameful  bondage  by  king  and  priestcraft  wound  round 
the  Body  Politic,  that  had  so  long  been  lying  like  a  heart- 
stricken  lunatic  under  the  eyes  of  his  keepers,  but  that  would 
now  issue  forth  from  the  dungeon  gloom  into  the  light  of  day, 
and  in  its  sacred  frenzy  immolate  its  grey  oppressors  on  the 
very  altar  of  superstition. 

North.  What  the  devil  is  the  meaning  of  all  this,  James  ?  Are 
you  spouting  a  gill  of  one  of  Brougham's  frothy  phials  of  wrath 
poured  out  against  the  Holy  Alliance  ?  Beware  of  the  dregs. 

Shepherd.  I  might  have  escaped — but  I  was  resolved  to 
cement  the  cause  with  my  martyred  blood.  I  was  not  a  man 
to  disappoint  the  people.  They  had  come  there  to  see  me 
die — not  James  Hogg  the  Ettrick  Shepherd — but  Hogg  the 
Liberator ;  and  from  my  blood,  I  felt  assured,  would  arise 
millions  of  armed  men,  under  whose  tread  would  sink  the 
thrones  of  ancient  dynasties,  and  whose  hands  would  unfurl 
to  all  the  winds  the  standard  of  Freedom,  never  again  to  en 
circle  the  staff  till  its  dreadful  rustling  had  quailed  the  kings, 
even  as  the  mountain  sough  sends  down  upon  their  knees 
whole  herds  of  cattle,  ere  rattles  from  summit  to  summit  the 
exulting  music  of  the  thunderstorm. 

Tickler.  Isn't  he  a  wonderful  creature,  North  ?  He  beats 
Brougham  all  to  besoms. 

Shepherd.  So  once  more  my  head  was  on  the  block — the 
axe  came  down — and  I  remember  nothing  more,  except  that 
after  bouncing  several  times  about  the  scaffold,  it  was  taken 
up  by  that  miserable  slave  of  slaves,  who  muttered,  "  Behold 
the  head  of  a  traitor !  "  Not  a  voice  said  Amen — and  I  had 
my  revenge  and  my  triumph  ! 

North.  Strange,  so  true  a  Tory  should  be  so  revolutionary 
in  his  dreams  ! 


"  The  Cruse-dubs  o    Glasgow"  105 

Tickler.  In  France,  James  would  have  been  Robespierre. 

Shepherd.  Huts !  tuts  !  Dreams  gang  by  the  rule  o'  con 
traries.  Yet  I  dinna  say  what  I  might  hae  been  during  the 
French  Revolution.  At  times  and  seasons  the  nature  o'  the 
very  brute  animals  is  no  to  be  depended  on  ;  and  how  muckle 
mair  changeable  is  that  o'  man,  wi'  his  boasted  reason  look 
ing  before  and  after — his  imagination  building  up,  and  his 
passions  pu'in  down  ;  ae  day  a  loving  angel  frae  heaven— 
the  next  a  demon  o'  destruction  let  loose  frae  hell !  But 
wasna  ye  there  yoursel,  Mr.  North  ?  What  for  no  speak  ? 
There's  naebody  here  but  freens  ! 

Tickler.  Remember,  James,  that  our  beloved  Christopher 
fainted  a  few  minutes  ago — 

Shepherd.  Sae  he  did — sae  he  did.  .  .  .  But  was  ye  ever 
in  the  Guse-dubs  o'  Glasgow  ?  Safe  us  a ' !  what  clarty 
closses,  narrowin  awa'  and  darkenin  douu — some  stracht,  and 
some  serpentine — into  green  middens  o'  baith  liquid  and  solid 
matter,  soomin'  wi'  dead  cats  arid  auld  shoon,  and  rags  o' 
petticoats  that  had  been  worn  till  they  fell  aff  and  wad  wear 
nae  langer. 

Tickler.  Hear !  hear  !  hear  ! 

Shepherd.  Dive  down  anither  close,  and  you  hear  a  man 
murderin  his  wife  up-stairs  in  a  garret.  A'  at  ance  flees  open 
the  door  at  the  stair-head,  and  the  mutchless  mawsey,  a' 
dreepin  wi'  bluid,  flings  herself  frae  the  tap  step  o'  the  flicht 
to  the  causeway,  and  into  the  nearest  change-house,  roaring 
in  rage  and  terror — twa  emotions  that  are  no  canny  when 
they  chance  to  forgather — and  ca'in  for  a  constable  to  tak 
haud  o'  her  gudeman,  who  has  threatened  to  ding  out  her 
brains  wi'  a  hammer,  or  cut  her  throat  wi'  a  razor. 

North.  What  painting,  Tickler  !  What  a  Salvator  is  our 
Shepherd ! 

Shepherd.  Down  anither  close,  and  a  battle  o'  dowgs !     A 


106  A  Battle  of  "  Dowgs" 

bull-dowg  and  a  mastiff!  The  great  big  brown  mastifi 
mouthin  the  bull-dowg  by  the  verra  hainches,  as  if  to  crunch 
his  back,  and  the  wee  white  bull-dowg  never  seemin  to  fash 
his  thoomb,  but  stickin  by  the  regular-set  teeth  o'  his  under 
hung  jaw  to  the  throat  o'  the  mastiff,  close  to  the  jugular, 
and  no  to  be  drawn  aff  the  grip  by  twa  strong  baker-boys 
pu'in  at  the  tail  o'  the  tane,  and  twa  strong  butcher-boys 
pu'in  at  the  tail  o'  the  tither — for  the  mastiff's  maister  be 
gins  to  fear  that  the  veeper  at  his  throat  will  kill  him  out 
right,  and  offers  to  pay  a'  betts  and  confess  his  dowg  has 
lost  the  battle.  But  the  crood  wush  to  see  the  fecht  out — 
and  harl  the  dowgs,  that  are  noo  worryin  ither  without  ony 
growlin — baith  silent,  except  a  sort  o'  snortin  through  the 
nostrils,  and  a  kind  o'  guller  in  their  gullets — I  say,  the  crood 
harl  them  out  o'  the  midden,  ontil  the  stanes  again — and 
"  Weel  dune,  Crcsar." — "  Better  dune,  Veeper." — "A  mutch- 
kin  to  a  gill  on  whitey." — "  The  muckle  ane  canna  fecht."— 
"  See  how  the  wee  bick  is  worryin  him  now  by  a  new  spat 
on  the  thrapple." — "  He  wad  rin  awa  gin  she  wad  let  him 
loose." — "  She's  just  like  her  mither,  that  belanged  to  the 
caravan  o'  wild  beasts." — "  Oh  man,  Davie,  but  I  wud  like  to 
get  a  breed  out  o'  her,  by  the  watch-dowg  at  Bell-meadow 
Bleachfield,  that  killed,  ye  ken,  the  Kilmarnock  carrier's  Help 
in  twunty  minutes,  at  Kingswell —  " 

North.  Stop,  James,  your  mine  is  inexhaustible.  But  here 
goes  for  a  chant.  (Sings  "  The  Humors  of  Donny brook  Fair.") 

Shepherd.  The  like  o'  that  was  never  heard  in  this  warld 
afore.  The  brogue  as  perfec  as  if  you  had  been  born  and 
bred  in  the  bog  o'  Allen  !  How  muckle  better  this  kind  o' 
weel-timed  daffin,  that  aye  gangs  on  here  at  Southside,  than 
literary  and  philosophical  conversation,  arid  criticism  on  the 
fine  arts,  and  polemical  discussion  wi'  red  faces  and  fiery  een 
on  international  policy,  and  the  corn  laws  and  surplus  popu- 


The  Shepherd  in  a  Shower-Bath.  107 

lation,  and  havers  about  Free  Tread !  Was  ye  in  the  shower- 
bath  the  day,  Mr.  Tickler  ? 

Tickler.  Yes,  James — do  you  take  it  ? 

Shepherd.  I  hae  never  yet  had  courage  to  pu'  the  string. 
In  I  gang  and  shut  the  door  on  mysel — and  tak  haud  o'  the 
string  very  gently,  for  the  least  rug  'ill  bring  down  the 
squash  like  the  Falls  of  the  Clyde  ;  and  I  look  up  to  the 
machine,  a'  pierced  wi'  so  many  water-holes,  and  then  I  shut 
my  een  and  my  mouth  like  grim  death,  and  then  I  let  gae 
the  string,  and,  gruin  a*  the  time,  try  to  whistle  ;  and  then  I 
agree  to  allow  myself  a  respite  till  I  count  fifty  ;  and  neist 
begin  to  argue  wi'  my  ain  conscience,  that  the  promise  I 
had  made  to  mysel  to  whumle  the  splash-cask  was  only  be 
tween  it  and  me,  and  that  the  warld  will  ken  naething  about 
the  matter  if  I  come  out  again  re  infectd ;  and,  feenally,  1 
step  out  as  cautiously  as  a  thief  frae  a  closet,  and  set  myself 
down  in  the  arm-chair,  beside  the  towel  warming  at  the  fire, 
and  tak  up  the  Magazine,  and  peruse,  perhaps,  ane  o'  the 
u  Noctes  Ambrosianas,"  till  I'm  like  to  split  wi'  lauchin  at 
my  ain  wut,  forgetting  a'  the  time  that  the  door's  no  locked, 
and  what  a  figure  I  wud  present  to  ony  o'  the  servant  lasses 
that  micht  happen  to  come  in  lookin  for  naething,  or  to  some 
collegian  or  contributor,  come  out  frae  Embro'  during  the 
vacance  to  see  the  Ettrick  Shepherd.  But  I  canna  help 
thinkin,  Mr.  Tickler,  for  a'  your  lauchin,  that  in  a  like  predic 
ament  you  would  be  a  mair  ridiculous  mortal  than  mysel.  — 
But  what  are  ye  thinking  on,  Mr.  North  ?  I  dinna  believe 
ye  hae  heard  a  word  o'  what  I've  been  saying — but  it's  your 
ain  loss. 

North.  Here's  a  copy  of  fine  verses,  James,  but  every  line 
seems  written  twice  over — how  is  that? 

Shepherd.  I  never  could  tell  how  that  happens — but  mis* 
every  ither  line,  and  a'  will  be  right. 


108  An  Optical  Delusion. 

Tickler.  I  have  observed  that  at  night,  after  supper,  with 
ships  at  sea.  Two  ships  of  the  line !  not  one  ship  and  one 
frigate — but  two  eighty-fours.  Shut  one  eye,  and  there  at 
anchor  lies,  let  us  say,  the  Bellerophon — for  I  am  speaking 
of  the  olden  time.  Open  the  other,  and  behold  two  Bel- 
lerophons  riding  at  anchor.  Optics,  as  a  science,  are  all  very 
well,  but  they  can't  explain  that  mystery — not  they,  and  be 
hanged  to  them — ask  Whewell  or  Airy.  But,  North,  the 
verses ! 

Shepherd.  There's  nae  mair  certainty  in  mathematical 
science  than  in  sheep-shearing.  The  verses  ! 

Tickler.  The  stanzas  seem  to  me  to  be  sixteen  lines  each, 
but  I  will  divide  them  by  two,  which  gives  eight 
verses ! 

North.  Well,  well,  James,  if  you  think  the  Magazine's  not 
falling  off — 

Shepherd.  Mr.  Tickler,  man,  I  canna  stay  ony  langer — ye 
see  Mr.  North's  gotten  unco  fou,  and  I  maun  accompany  him 
in  the  cotch  down  to  Buchanan  Lodge — shall  I  ? 

North.  Hogg,  as  to  that,  if  you  don't  care  about  the  calcu 
lation  ;  for  as  to  the  Apocrypha,  and  so  on,  if  the  Bible 
Society  pay  four  hundred  a  year,  really  the  Christian  Instructor 
— hip — hip — hip  ! — Why,  Hogg,  ye  see — the  fools  are — 
hurra — hurra — hurra  ! 

Shepherd.  Oh,  Mr.  Tickler,  North's  gotten  a  mouthful'  o' 
fresh  air  when  you  opened  the  window,  and  is  as  fou's  the 
Baltic.  But  I'll  see  him  hame.  The  cotch,  the  cotch,  the 
cotch — dinna  dint  the  pint  o'  your  crutch  into  my  instep,  Mr. 
North — there,  there — steady,  steady — the  cotch,  the  cotch. 
Gude  mornin,  Tickler — what  a  moon  and  stars ! 

North.  Surely  Ambrose  has  made  some  alteration  in  his 
house  lately.  I  cannot  make  out  this  room  at  all.  It  is  not 
the  Blue  Parlor  ? 


One  Coach — or  Two?  109 

Shepherd.  We're  at  Southside,  sir — we're  at  Southside,  sir 
— perfectly  sober  ane  and  a' ;  but  dirma  be  alarmed,  sir,  if 
you  see  twa  cotches  at  the  door,  for  we're  no  gaun  to  sepa 
rate — there's  only  ane,  believe  me — and  I'll  tak  a  hurl  wi'  ye 
as  far's  the  Harrow. 


IX. 

7^  THE  PAPER  PARLOR. 

Scene — Ambrose's  Hotel,  Picardy  Place — Paper  Parlor. 
SHEPHERD. — NORTH. — TICKLER. 

Shepherd.  Do  you  ken,  Mr.  North,  that  I'm  beginning  to 
like  this  snug  wee  roomy  in  Mr.  Awmrose's  New  Hotel  maist 
as  weel's  the  Blue  Parlor  in  the  dear  auld  tenement  ? 

North.  Ah,  no,  my  dear  James,  none  of  us  will  ever  be  able 
to  bring  our  hearts  to  do  that ;  to  us,  Gabriel's  Road  will  aye 
be  holy  and  haunted  ground.  George  Cooper  *  is  a  line 
fighter  and  a  civil  landlord,  but  I  cannot  look  on  his  name  oil 
that  door  without  a  pensive  sigh !  Mr.  Ambrose's  worthy 
brother  has  moved,  you  know,  upstairs,  and  I  hobble  in  upon 
him  once  a  fortnight  for  auld  langsyne. 

Shepherd.  I  aften  wauken  greetin  f  frae  a  dream  about  that 
dear,  dear  tenement.  "  But  what's  the  use  o'  sighing,  since 
life  is  on  the  wing  ?  "  and  but  for  the  sacredness  o'  a'  thae 
recollections,  this  house — this  hotel — is  in  itsel  preferable, 
perhaps,  to  our  ancient  howf. 

North.  Picardy  is  a  pleasant  place,  and  our  host  is  pros 
perous.  No  house  can  be  quieter  and  more  noiseless. 

*  George   Cooper,    a   respectable    man,  although   a   pugilist,   succeeded 
Ambrose  in  Gabriel's  Road. 
t  Grect'm — weeping. 
110 


Voices  of  the  Night.  Ill 

Shepherd.  That's  a  great  maitter.  You'll  recollect  me  ance 
lodging  in  Anne  Street,*  1100  nae  langer  in  existence, — a 
steep  street,  ye  ken,  rinriin  down  alang  the  North  Brig  toward 
where  the  New  Markets  are,  but  noo  biggit  up  wi'  a'  thae 
new  buildings — 

North.  That  I  do,  James.  'Twas  there,  up  a  spiral  stone 
staircase,  in  a  room  looking  towards  the  Castle,  that  first  I 
saw  my  Shepherd's  honest  face,  and  first  I  ate  along  with 
him  cod's  head  and  shoulders. 

Shepherd.  We  made  a  nicht  o't  wi'  twa  dear  freens  ;  f — ane 
o'  them  at  this  hour  in  Ettrick,  and  the  ither  ower  the  saut 
seas  in  India,  an  Episcopalian  chaplain. 

North.  But  let's  be  merry,  James.  Our  remembrances  are 
getting  too  tender. 

Shepherd.  What  I  was  gaun  to  say  was  this, — that  yon 
room,  quate  $  as  it  seemed,  was  aften  the  maist  infernally 
noisy  chawmer  on  the  face  o'  this  noisy  earth.  It  wasna  far, 
ye  ken,  frae  the  playhouse.  Ae  wunter  there  was  an  after 
piece  ca'd  the  Burn  in  o'  Moscow,  that  was  performed  maist 
every  nicht.  A  while  afore  twal  the  Kremlin  used  to  be 
blawn  up ;  and  the  soun',  like  thunder,  wauken'd  a'  the 
sleepin  dowgs  in  that  part  o'  the  town.  A'  at  ance  there  was 
set  up  siccan  a  barkin,  and  yellin,  and  youlin,  and  growlin, 
and  nyaffin,  and  snaffin,  and  clankin  o'  chains  frae  them  in 
kennels,  that  it  was  waur  than  the  din  o'  aerial  jowlers  pur 
suing  the  wild  huntsman  through  the  sky.  Then  cam  the 
rattlin  o'  wheels,  after  Moscow  was  reduced  to  ashes,  that 

*  The  North  British  Railway  terminus  is  close  to  the  site  where  Anne 
Street  formerly  stood. 

t  Mr.  Grieve  of  Cacra  Bank,  Ettrick,  an  Edinburgh  merchant,  and  Mr. 
James  Gray,  one  of  the  mastei-s  of  the  High  School.  The  latter  was  an 
accomplished  linguist.  After  leaving  the  High  School,  he  held  an  appoint 
ment  in  Belfast  College,  and  died  in  India,  in  the  service  of  the  Church  of 
England,  while  engaged  in  translating  the  Scriptures  into  one  of  the  native 
dialects.  J  Quate — quiet. 


112  Voices  of  the  Night. 

made  the  dowgs,  especially  the  watch  anes,  mair  outrageous 
than  ever,  and  they  keepit  rampaugin  in  their  chains  on  till 
past  twa  in  the  mornin.  About  that  hour,  or  sometimes 
suner,  they  had  wauken'd  a'  the  cocks  in  the  neeborhood— 
baith  them  in  preevate  families  and  in  poulterers'  cavies ; 
and  the  creturs  keepit  crawin  defiance  to  ane  anither  quite 
on  to  dawn  o'  licht.  Some  butchers  had  ggem-cocks  in  pens 
no  far  frae  my  lodgings  ;  and  oh  !  but  the  deevils  incarnate 
had  hoarse,  fierce,  cruel  craws !  Neist  began  the  dust  and 
dung  carts  ;  and  whare  the  mail-coaches  were  gaun  or  comin 
frae,  I  never  kent,  but  ilka  half-hour  there  was  a  toutin  o' 
horns — lang  tin  anes,  I'm  sure,  frae  the  scutter  o'  broken- 
winded  soun'.  After  that  a'  was  din  and  distraction,  for  day- 
life  begude  *  to  roar  again ;  and  aften  hae  I  risen  without 
ever  having  bowed  an  ee,  and  a'  owing  to  the  burnin  o' 
Moscow  and  blawin  up  o'  the  Kremlin. 

North.  Nothing  bf  the  sort  can  happen  here.  This  must 
be  a  sleeping-house  fit  for  a  Sardanapalus. 

Shepherd.  I'll  try  it  this  verra  nicht.  But  what  for  tauk 
o' bedtime  sae  sune  after  denner?  It's  really  a  bit  bonny 
parlor. 

North.  What  think  you,  James,  of  that  pattern  of  a  paper 
on  the  wall  ? 

Shepherd.  I  was  sae  busily  employed  eatin  durin  denner, 
and  sae  muckle  mair  busier  driukin  after  denner,  that,  wull 
ye  believe  me  when  I  say't,  that  gran'  huntin-piece  paperin 
the  wa's  never  ance  caught  my  een  till  this  blessed  moment  ? 
O  sirs,  but  it's  an  inspeeritin  picture,  and  I  wush  I  was  but 
on  horseback,  following  the  hounds ! 

Tickler.  The  poor  stag !  how  his  agonies  accumulate  and 
intensify  in  each  successive  stage  of  his  doom,  flying  in  dis 
traction,  like  Orestes  before  the  Furies  ! 

*  Begude — began. 


A  German  Romance.  113 

Shepherd  The  stag  !  confoun'  me  gin  I  see  ony  stag  !  But 
yon's  a  lovely  leddy — a  Duchess — a  Princess — or  a  Queen — 
wha  keeps  aye  crownin  the  career,  look  whaur  you  wull — 
there  soomin*  a  ford  like  a  Naiad — there  plungin  a  Bird  o' 
Paradise  into  the  forest's  gloom — and  there,  lo  !  reappearing 
star-bright  on  the  mountain  brow  ! 

North.  Few  ladies  look  lovable  on  horseback.  The 
bumping  on  their  seat  is  not  elegant  ;  nor  do  they  mend  the 
matter  much  when,  by  means  of  the  crutch,  they  rise  on  the 
saddle  like  a  postilion,  buckskin  breeches  excepted. 

Tickler.  The  habit  is  masculine,  and,  if  made  by  a  country 
tailor,  to  ordinary  apprehension  converts  a  plain  woman  into 
a  pretty  man. 

North.  No  modest  female  should  ever  sport  beaver.  It 
gives  her  the  bold  air  of  a  kept-mistress. 

Tickler.  But  what  think  you  of  her  elbows,  hard  at  work 
as  those  of  little  Tommy  Lye,  the  Yorkshire  Jockey,  begin 
ning  to  make  play  on  a  north-country  horse  in  the  Doncaster 
St.  Leger  when  opposite  the  grand  stand ! 

North.  How  engagingly  delicate  the  virgin  splattering 
along,  whip  in  mouth,  draggle-tailed,  and  with  left  leg  bared 
to  the  knee-pan  ! 

Shepherd.  Tauk  awa — tauk  awa — ye  twa  auld  revilers ; 
but  let  me  hae  anither  glower  o'  my  galloping  goddess, 
gleaming  gracefully  through  a  green  glade,  in  a'  the  glorious 
grimness  of  a  grove  of  gigantic  forest-trees  ! 

Tickler.  What  a  glutter  o'  gutturals  ! 

Shepherd.  Oh  that  some  moss-hidden  stump,  like  a  snake  in 
the  grass,  wud  but  gar  her  steed  stumble,  that  she  might 
saftly  glide  outower  the  neck  before  the  solitary  shepherd  in 
a  flichter  o'  rainbow  light,  sae  that  I  were  by  to  come  jookin 
out  frae  ahint  an  aik,  like  a  Satyr,  or  rather  the  god  Pan,  and 

*  Soomin — swimming. 


114  The  Wood-Witch. 

ere  her  lovely  limbs  could  in  their  disarray  be  veiled  among 
the  dim  wood  violets,  receive  into  my  arms  and  bosom — O 
blessed  burthen  ! — the  peerless  Forest  Queen  ! 

North.  O  gentle  Shepherd  ! — thou  fond  idolater  ! — how 
canst  thou  thus  in  fancy  burn  with  fruitless  fires  before  the 
image  of  that  beautiful  cruelty,  all  athirst  and  a-wing  for 
blood  ? 

Shepherd.  The  love  that  starts  up  at  the  touch  o'  imagina 
tion,  sir,  is  o'  mony  million  moods. — A  beautiful  Cruelty ! 
Thank  you,  Mr.  North,  for  the  poetic  epithet. 

North.  Such  SHAPES,  in  the  gloom  of  forests,  hunt  for  the 
souls  of  men ! 

Shepherd.  Wood-witch,  or  Dell-deevil,  my  soul  would 
follow  such  a  shape  into  the  shades  o'  death.  Let  the 
Beautiful  Cruelty  wear  murder  on  her  face,  so  that  something 
in  her  fierce  eyeballs  lure  me  to  a  boundless  love.  I  see 
that  her  name  is  Sin  ;  and  those  figures  in  the  rear,  with 
black  veils,  are  Remorse  and  Repentance.  They  beckon  me 
back  into  the  obscure  wi'  lean  uplifted  hands,  and  a  bony 
shudder,  as  if  each  cadaver  were  a  clanking  skeleton  ;  but 
the  closer  I  come  to  Sin,  the  farther  awa  arid  less  distinct  do 
they  become  ;  and  as  I  touch  the  hem  o'  her  garment,  where 
are  they  gone  ? 

North.  James,  you  must  have  been  studying  the  German 
Romances.  But  I  see  your  aim — there  is  a  fine  moral — 

Tickler.  Curse  all  German  Romances.  (Rings  the  bell 
violently.} 

Shepherd.  Ay,  Mr.  Tickler,  just  sae.  You've  brak  the  bell 
rope,  ye  see,  wi'  that  outrageous  jerk.    "What  are  ye  wantin? 
*  Tickler.     A  spitting-box. 

Shepherd.  Hoots  !  You're  no  serious  in  sayin  your  gaun 
to  smoke  already  ?  Wait  till  after  sooper. 

Tickler.   No,  no,  James.    T  rang  for  our  dear  Christopher's 


Toothache.  115 

cushion.  I  saw,  by  the  sudden  twist  that  screwed  up  his 
chin,  that  his  toe  twinged. — Is  the  pain  any  milder  now,  sir? 
Shepherd.  Oh,  sir  !  oh,  sir !  say  that  the  pain's  milder  noo, 
sir  ! — Oh  dear  me  !  only  to  think  o'  your  listenin  to  my  stu 
pid  havers,  arid  never  betrayin  the  least  uneasiness,  or  wish 
to  interrupt  me,  and  gaur  me  haud  my  tongue  ! — Oh,  sir  !  oh, 
sir !  say  that  the  pain's  milder  noo,  sir ! 

North.  Wipe  my  brow,  James,  and  let  me  have  a  glass  of 
cold  water. 

Shepherd.  I'll  wipe  your  broo. — Pity  me — pity  me — a* 
drappin  wi'  cauld  sweat !  But  ye  maunna  tak  a  single  mouth- 
fu'  o'  cauld  water.  My  dearest  sir — its  poishin  for  the  gout — 
try  a  soup  o'  my  toddy.  There !  grasp  the  tummler  wi'  baith 
your  hauns.  Aff  wi't — it's  no  strang. — Arena  ye  better  noo, 
sir?  Isna  the  pain  milder  noo? 

North.  Such  filial  tenderness,  my  dear  boy,  is  not  lost  on 
— oh  !  gemini — that  was  the  devil's  own  twinge  ! 

Shepherd.  What's  to  be  dune  ?  What's  to  be  dune  ?  Pity 
me,  what's  to  be  dune  ? 

North.  A  single  small  glass,  James,  of  the  unchristened 
creature,  my  dear  James. 

Shepherd.  Ay,  ay — that's  like  your  usual  sense.  Here  it's 
— open  your  mouth,  and  I'll  administer  the  draught  wi'  my 
am  hauns. 

Tickler.  See  how  it  runs  down  his  gizzern,  his  gizzern,  his 
gizzern,  see  how  it  runs  down  his  gizzern — ye  ho !  ye  ho ! 
ye  ho !  * 

North.  Bless  you,  James — it  is  very  reviving — continue  to 
converse — you  and  Tickler — and  let  me  wrestle  a  little  in 
silence  with  the  tormentor. 

Shepherd.  Wha  wrote  yon  article  in  the  Magazine  on 
Captain  Cleeas  and  Jymnastics  ? 

*  This  is  the  fag-end  of  some  old  Bacchanalian  ditty. 


116  Tickler  in  his  Back-Grreen. 

Tickler.  Jymnastics  ! — James — if  you  love  me — G  hard. 
The  other  is  the  Cockney  pronunciation. 

Shepherd.     Weel,  then,  GGGhhymnastics !    Wull  that  do  ? 

Tickler.     I  wrote  the  article. 

Shepherd.  That's  a  damned  lee.  It  was  naebody  else  but 
Mr.  North  himsel.  But  what  for  didna  he  describe  some  o' 
the  fates  *  o'  the  laddies  at  the  Edinburgh  Military  Academy 
on  the  Saturday  afore  their  vacanse !  I  never  saw  the  match 
o'  yon. 

Tickler.     What  tricks  did  the  imps  perform  ? 

Shepherd.  They  werena  tricks — they  were  fates.  First, 
ane  after  anither  took  haud  o'  a  transverse  bar  o'  wud  aboon 
their  heads,  and  raised  their  chins  ower't  by  the  power  o'  their 
arms  wi'  a'  the  ease  and  elegance  in  the  warld,  and  leanin 
ower't  on  their  breasts,  and  then  catching  haud,  by  some  un 
accountable  cantrip,  o'  the  waistband  o'  their  breeks,  awa 
they  set  heels  ower  head,  whirligig,  whirligig,  whirligig,  wi'  a 
smoke-jack  velocity,  that  was  perfectly  confoundin,  the  laddie 
doin't  being  nae  mair  distinguishable  in  lith  and  limb,  than 
gin  he  had  been  a  bunch  o'  claes  hung  up  to  frichten  craws 
in  the  fields  within  what's  ca'd  a  wund-mill. 

Tickler.  I  know  the  exercise — and  have  often  done  it  in 
my  own  back-green. 

Shepherd.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha !  What  maun  the  neebors  hae 
thought  the  first  time  they  saw't,  lookin  out  o'  their  wundows — 
or  the  second  aither  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  What  a  subject  for 
a  picture  by  Geordie  Cruickshanks — ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Tickler.     Your  laugh,  Hogg,  is  coarse — it  is  offensive. 

Shepherd.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha !  My  lauch  may  be  coorse, 
Tickler,  for  there's  nae  thing  superfine  about  me ;  but  to  iiae 
man  o'  common  sense  can  it,  on  sic  on  occasion,  be  offensive. 
Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  Oh  dear  me  !  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha, 

*  Fates— f  eats. 


Newhaven  Fishwives.  117 

ha  !  Lang  Timothy  whurlin  round  a  cross-bar,  up  in  the  air 
amang  the  rowan-tree*  taps,  in  his  am  back-green  at  South- 
side  !  !  !  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  I  wash  I  mayna  choke  mysel. 

Tickler.  Sir,  you  are  now  a  fit  object  of  pity — not  of  anger 
or  indignation. 

Shepherd.  I'm  glad  o'  that,  for  I  hate  to  see  ye  angry,  sir. 
Ft  gars  ye  look  sae  unco  ugly — perfectly  fearsome. 

North.  It  must  indeed  have  been  a  pretty  sight,  James. 

Shepherd.  Oh,  Mr.  North,  is  that  your  vice  ?  I  am  glad  to 
see  you've  come  roun'. 

North.  What  think  ye,  James,  of  this  plan  of  supplying 
Edinburgh  with  living  fish  ? 

Shepherd.  Gude  or  bad,  it  shall  never  hae  my  countenance. 
I  couldna  thole  Embro  without  the  fishwives,  and  gin  it 
succeeded,  it  would  be  the  ruin  o'  that  ancient  race. 

Tickler.  Yes,  James,  there  are  handsome  women  among 
these  Nereids. 

Shepherd.  Weel-faured  hizzies,  Mr.  Tickler.  But  nane  o' 
your  winks — for  wi'  a'  their  fearsome  tauk,  they're  dacent 
bodies.  I  like  to  see  their  well-shaped  shanks  aneath  their 
short  yellow  petticoats.  There's  something  heartsome  in  the 
creak  o'  their  creeshy  creels  on  their  braid  backs,  as  they 
gang  swinging  up  the  steyf  streets  without  sweetin,  with  the 
leather  belt  atower  their  mutched  heads,  a'  bent  laigh  doun 
against  five-stane  load  o'  haddocks,  skates,  cods,  and  flounders, 
like  horses  that  never  reestt — and  oh,  man,  but  mony  o'  them 
hae  musical  voices,  and  their  cries  afar  aff  make  my  heart 
strings  dirl. 

North.  Hard-working,  contented,  cheerful  creatures  indeed, 
James,  but  unconscionable  extortioners,  and — 

*  This  rowan-tree,  or  mountain  ash,  still  flourishes  in  the  back-green  of 
No.  20  George  Square,  formerly  occupied  by  Mr.  Robert  Sym. 
t  Stey— steep.  J  Reett— grow  restive. 


118  On  the  Road  to  Leith. 

Shepherd.  Saw  ye  them  ever  marchin  hamewards  at  nicht, 
in  a  baun  o'  some  fifty  or  threescore,  down  Leith  Walk,  wi' 
the  grand  gas-lamps  illuminating  their  scaly  creels,  all  shining 
like  silver  ?  And  heard  ye  them  ever  singing  their  strange 
sea-sangs — first  half-a-dizzen  o'  the  bit  young  anes,  wi'  as  saf  t 
vices  and  sweet  as  you  could  hear  in  St  George's  Kirk  on 
Sabbath,  half  singin  and  half  shoutin  a  leadin  verse,  and  then 
a'  the  mithers  and  granmithers,  and  aiblins  great  granmithers, 
some  o'  them  wi'  vices  like  verra  men,  gran'  tenors  and  awfu' 
basses,  joinin  in  the  chorus,  that  gaed  echoing  roun'  Arthur's 
Seat,  and  awa  ower  the  tap  o'  the  Martello  Tower,  out  at  sea 
ayont  the  end  o'  Leith  Pier  ?  Wad  ye  believe  me  that  the 
music  micht  be  ca'd  a  hymn — at  times  sae  wild  and  sae 
mournfu' — and  then  takin  a  sudden  turn  into  a  sort  o'  queer 
and  outlandish  glee  ?  It  gars  me  think  o'  the  saut  sea-faem 
—and  white  mew-wings  wavering  in  the  blast — and  boaties 
dancin  up  and  down  the  billow  vales,  wi'  oar  or  sail — and 
waes  me — waes  me — o'  the  puir  fishing-smack,  gaun  down 
head  foremost  into  the  deep,  and  the  sighin  and  the  sabbin  o' 
widows,  and  the  wailin  o'  fatherless  weans !  .  .  . 

North.  You  alluded,  a  little  while  ago,  to  the  Quarterly 
Review,  James.  I  have  carefully  preserved,  among  other 
relics  of  departed  worth,  the  beautiful  manuscript  of  the  first 
article  the  new  Editor  *  ever  sent  me. 

Tickler.  In  the  Balaam-box  ? 

Shepherd.  Na,  faith,  Mr.  Tickler,  you  may  set  up  your  gab 
noo ;  but  do  you  recollec  how  ye  used  to  try  to  fleech  and 
flatter  him,  when  he  begood  sharpening  his  keelivine  pen,  and 
tearing  aff  the  back  o'  a  letter  to  sketch  a  bit  caricature  o' 
Southside  ?  Na — I've  sometimes  thocht,  Mr.  North,  that  ye 
were  a  wee  feared  for  him  yoursel,  and  used,  rather  without 

*  John  Gibson  Lockhart,  Esq.,  the  late  editor  of  the  Quarterly  Review. 
Born  in  1793  ;  died  in  1854.  % 


Troubles  of  an  Editor.  119 

kennm't,  to  draw  in  your  horns.  The  Balaam-box,  indeed ! 
Ma  faith,  had  ye  ventured  on  sic  a  step,  ye  micht  just  as  weel 
at  ance  hae  gien  up  the  Magazine. 

North.  James,  that  man  never  breathed,  nor  ever  will 
breathe,  for  whose  contributions  to  the  Magazine  I  cared  one 
single  curse. 

Shepherd.  Oh,  man,  Mr.  North,  dinna  lose  your  temper, 
sir.  What  for  do  you  get  sae  red  in  the  face  at  a  bit  puir, 
harmless,  silly  joke — especially  you  that's  sae  wutty  and  sae 
severe  yoursel,  sae  sarcastic  an  fu'  o'  satire,  and  at  times  (the 
love  o'  truth  chirts*  it  out  o'  me)  sae  like  a  sleuth-hound,  sae 
keen  on  the  scent  o'  human  bluid  !  Dear  me !  mony  a  luck 
less  deevil,  wi'  but  sma'  provocation,  or  nane,  Mr.  North,  hae 
ye  worried. 

North.  The  Magazine,  James,  is  the  Magazine. 

Shepherd.  Is't  really  ?  I've  nae  mair  to  say,  sir  ;  that 
oracular  response  removes  a'  diffeeculties,  and  settles  the 
hash  o'  the  maitter,  as  Pierce  Eganf  would  say,  at  ance. 

North.  Nothing  but  the  purest  philanthropy  could  ever  have 
induced  me,  my  dearest  Shepherd,  to  suffer  any  contributors 
to  the  Magazine  ;  and  I  sometimes  bitterly  repent  having  ever 
departed  from  my  original  determination  (long  religiously 
adhered  to)  to  write,  proprio  Marte,  the  entire  miscellany. 

Shepherd.  A'  the  world  kens  that — but  whaur's  the  harm 
o'  a  fewgude,  sober,  steady,  judicious,  regular,  weel-informed, 
versateele,  and  biddable  contributors  ? 

North.  None  such  are  to  be  found  on  earth — you  must 
look  for  them  in  heaven.  Oh,  James  !  you  know  not  what 
it  is  to  labor  under  a  load  of  contributors  !  A  prosy  parson, 
who,  unknown  to  me,  had,  it  seems,  long  worn  a  wig,  and 
published  an  assize  sermon,  surprising  me  off  my  guard  on  a 
dull  rainy  day,  when  the  most  vigilant  of  editors  has  fallen 

*  Chirts—  spxirts.  t  The  author  of  Boxiana. 


120  The  Shepherd's  Wrongs. 

asleep,  effects  a  footing  in  the  Magazine.  Oh,  what  toil  and 
trouble  in  dislodging  the  Doctor !  The  struggle  may  continue 
for  years — and  there  have  been  instances  of  clerical  contribu 
tors  finally  removed  only  by  death. 

Shepherd.  Dog  on't,  ye  wicket  auld  Lucifer,  hoo  your  een 
sparkle  as  you  touzle  the  clergy  !  You  just  mind  me  o'  a 
lion  purlin  wi'  inward  satisfaction  in  his  throat,  and  waggiu 
his  tufted  tail  ower  a  Hottentot  lying  atween  his  paws  aye 
preferring  the  flesh  o'  a  blackamoor  to  that  o'  a  white  man. 

North.  I  respect  and  love  the  clergy,  James.  You  know 
that  well  enough,  and  the  feeling  is  mutual.  Or  suppose  a 
young  lawyer — 

Shepherd.  Or  suppose  that  some  shepherd,  more  silly  than 
his  sheep,  that  roams  in  yon  glen  where  Yarrow  frae  still  St. 
Mary's  Loch  rows  wimplin  to  join  the  Ettrick,  should  lay 
down  his  cruick,  and  aneath  the  shadow  o'  a  rock,  or  a  ruin, 
indite  a  bit  tale,  in  verse  or  prose,  or  in  something  between 
the  twa,  wi'  here  and  there  aiblins  a  touch  o'  nature — what 
is  ower  ower  aften  the  fate  o'  his  unpretending  contribution, 
Mr.  North  ?  A  cauld  glint  o'  the  ee — a  curl  o'  the  lip — a 
humph  o'  the  voice — a  shake  o'  the  head — and  then — but  the 
warld,  wicked  as  it  is,  could  never  believe  it — a  wave  o'  your 
haun,  and  instantly  and  for  evermore  is  it  swallowed  up  by 
the  jaws  of  the  Balaam-box,  greedy  as  the  grave  and  hungry 
as  Hades.  Ca'  ye  that  friendship — ca'  ye  that  respec — ca'  ye 
that  sae  muckle  as  the  common  humanity  due  to  ane  anif.her, 
frae  a'  men  o'  woman  born,  but  which  you,  sir, — na,  dinna 
frown  and  gr.aw  your  lip, — hae  ower  aften  forgotten  to  show 
even  to  me,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  and  the  author  o'  the 
Queen's  Wake'? 

North  (much  affected).  What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  my  dear, 
dear  Shepherd  ?  May  the  Magazine  sink  to  the  bottom  of 
the  Red  Sea ! — 


"  Precious  Powldowdies"  121 

Shepherd.  Dinna  greet,  sir — oh  !  dinna,  dinna,  greet !  For- 
gie  me  for  hurtin  your  feelins ;  and  be  assured,  that  frae  my 
heart  I  forgie  you  if  ever  you  hae  hurted  mine.  As  for 
wushin  the  Magazine  to  sink  to  the  bottom  o'  the  Red  Sea, 
that's  no  possible  ;  for  it's  lichter  far  than  water,  and  sink  it 
never  wull  till  the  laws  o'  Nature  hersel  undergo  change  and 
revolution.  My  only  fear  is,  under  the  present  constitution 
o'  the  elements,  that  ae  month  or  ither  Maga  will  flee  ower 
the  moon,  and,  thenceforth  a  comet,  .will  be  eccentric  on  her 
course,  and  come  careering  in  sight  o'  the  inhabitants  o'  the 
yearth,  perhaps,  only  ance  or  twice  before  Neddy  Irving's  * 
Day  o'  Judgment. 

(Mr.  AMBROSE  enters.) 

Shepherd.  As  sure's  death,  there's  the  oysters  !  O  man, 
Awmrose,  but  you've  the  pleasantest  face  o'  ony  man  o'  a* 
my  acquaintance.  Here's  ane  as  braid's  a  mushroom.  This 
is  Saturday  nicht,  and  they've  a'  gotten  their  bairds  shaved. 
There's  a  wee  ane  awa  down  my  wrang  throat ;  but  deil  a 
fears,  it'll  find  its  way  into  the  stamach.  A  waught  f  o' 
that  porter  gars  the  drums  o'  ane's  lugs  crack  and  play  dirl. 

Tickler.  They  are  in  truth  precious  powldowdies.  More 
boards,  Ambrose,  more  boards. 

Shepherd.  Yonner  are  half-a-dizzen  fresh  boards  on  the 
side-tables.  But  more  porter,  Awmrose — more  porter. 
Canna  ye  manage  mair  than  twa  pots  at  a  time,  man,  in  ilka 
haun  ?  For  twunty  years,  Mr.  North,  I  used  aye  to  blaw 
aff  the  froth,  or  cut  it  smack-smooth  across  wi'  the  edge  o* 
my  loof ;  but  for  the  last  ten  or  thereabouts,  indeed  ever 
since  the  Magazine,  I  hae  sooked  in  froth  and  a',  nor  cared 
about  diving  my  nose  in't.  "Faith,  I'm  thinkin  that  maun  be 
what  they  ca'  BROON  STOOT  ;  for  Mr.  Pitt  and  Mr.  Fox  are 

*  The  Rev.  Edward  Irving,  a  popular  preacher  of  the  day.    He  died  in  1834. 
t  Waught—*  large  draught. 


122  A  Psychological  Curiosity. 

nearing  ane  anither  on  the  wa'  there,  as  gin  they  were  gaun  to 
fecht ;  and  either  the  roof's  rising,  or  the  floor  fa'in,  or  I'm 
hafflins  fou ! 

Tickler.  Mr.  Pitt  and  Mr.  Fox ! — why,  James,  you  are 
dreaming.  This  is  not  the  Blue  Parlor ! 

North.  A  Psychological  Curiosity  1 

Shepherd.  Faith,  it  is  curious  aneuch,  and  shows  the  power 
o'  habit  in  producing  a  sort  o'  delusion  on  the  ocular  spect 
rum.  I  wad  hae  sworn  I  saw  the  lang,  thin,  lank  feegurand 
cocked-up  nose  o'  Pitt,  wi'  his  hand  pressed  down  wi'  an 
authoritative  nieve  on  a  heap  o'  Parliamentary  papers  ;  and 
the  big,  clumsy  carcase,  arched  een,  and  jolly  chops  o'  Fox, 
mair  like  a  master  coal-merchant  than  an  orator  or  a  states 
man  ; — but  they've  vanished  away,  far  aff,  and  wee,  wee  like 
atomies,  and  this  is  not  the  Blue  Parlor  sure  aneuch. 

North.  To  think  of  one  of  the  Noctes  Ambrosianse  passing 
away  without  ever  a  single  song  ! 

Shepherd.  It  hasna  past  awa  yet,  Mr.  North.  It's  no 
eleven,  man  ;  and  to  hinner  twal  frae  strikin  untimeously^ 
and  on  a  Saturday  nicht  I  hate  the  sound  o't — Mr.  Awm- 
rose,  do  you  put  back,  ae  round,  the  lang  hand  o'  the  knock.* 
Ye'se  hae  a  sang  or  twa  afore  we  part,  Mr.  North  ;  but,  even 
without  music,  hasna  this  been  a  pleasant  nicht  ?  I  sail  begin 
noo  wi'  pepper,  vinegar,  and  mustard,  for  the  oysters  by 
theirsels  are  getting  a  wee  saut.  By  the  tramping  on  the 
stairs  I  jalouse  the  playhouse  is  scalin.  Whisht,  Mr.  North  ! 
keep  a  calm  sugh,  or  O'Doherty  will  be  in  on  us,  and  gar  us 
break  the  Sabbath  morning.  Noo,  let's  draw  in  our  chairs 
to  the  fireside,  and  when  a's  settled  in  the  tither  parlors,  I'll 
sing  you  a  sang. 

[  Curtain  falls. 
*  Knock—  clock. 


IN  WHICH  THE  SHEPHERD  RELATES  HO  W  THE  BAG 
MEN  WERE  LOST. 

Scene — Ambrose's  Hotel,  Picardy  Place — Paper  Parlor. 
NORTH. — SHEPHERD. 

Shepherd.  Oh,  sir !  but  I'm  real  happy  to  see  you  out 
again  ;  and  to  think  that  we're  to  hae  a  twa-handed  crack, 
without  Tickler  or  ony  o'  the  rest  kennin  that  we're  at  Awm- 
rose's.  Gie's  your  haun  again,  my  dear  sir.  Noo,  what 
shall  we  hae  ? 

North.  A  single  jug,  James,  of  Glenlivet — not  very  strong, 
if  you  please  ;  for — 

Shepherd.  A  single  jug  o'  Glenleevit — no  very  strang ! 
My  dear  sir,  hae  you  lost  your  judgment  ?  You  ken  my 
re$ate  for  toddy,  and  ye  never  saw't  fail  yet.  In  wi'  a'  the 
sugar  and  a'  the  whusky,  whatever  they  chance  to  be,  intil 
the  jug  about  half  fu'  o'  water — just  say  three  minutes  to 
get  aff  the  boil — and  then  the  King's  health  in  a  bumper. 

North.  You  can  twist  the  old  man,  like  a  silk  thread 
round  your  finger,  James.  But  remember,  I'm  on  a  regimen. 

Shepherd.  Sae  am  I, — five  shaves  o'  toasted  butter  and 
bread — twa  eggs — a  pound  o'  kipper  sea-trout  or  saumon,  be 
it  mair  or  less — and  three  o'  the  big  cups  o'  tea  to  breakfast; 
ae  platefu'  o'  corned  beef,  and  potatoes  and  greens — the  leg 

123 


124  The  Sin  of  Snoring. 

and  the  wing  o'  a  how-towdy — wi'  some  tongue  or  ham — a 
cut  o'  ploom-puddiu,  and  cheese  and  bread,  to  denner — and 
ony  wee  trifle  afore  bedtime.  That's  the  regimen,  sir,  that 
I'm  on  the  noo,  as  far  as  regards  the  victualling  department ; 
and  I  canna  but  say  that,  moderate  as  it  is,  I  thrive  on't 
decently  aneuch,  and  haena  fun'  mysel  stouter  or  stranger 
either  in  mind  or  body,  sin'  the  King's  visit  to  Scotland.  I 
hae  made  nae  change  on  my  licker  sin'  the  Queen's  Wake, 
and  the  time  you  first  dined  wi'  me  in  Anne  Street — only  I 
hae  gien  up  porter,  which  is  swallin  drink,  and  lays  on  iiae- 
thing  but  fat  and  foziness. 

North.  I  forget  if  you  are  a  great  dreamer,  James  ? 

Shepherd.     Sleepin  or  waukin  ? 

North.  Sleeping — and  on  a  heavy  supper. 

Shepherd.  Oh !  sir,  I  not  only  pity  but  despise  the  coot, 
that  aff  wi'  his  claes,  on  wi'  his  nichtcap,  into  the  sheets, 
douri  wi'  his  head  on  the  bowster,  and  then,  afore  aoither 
man  could  hae  weel  taken  aff  his  breeks,  snorin  awa'  wi'  a' 
great  open  mouth,  without  a  single  dream  ever  travellin 
through  his  fancy  !  What  wad  be  the  harm  o'  pittin  him  to 
death  ? 

North.  What !  murder  a  man  for  not  dreaming,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Na — but  for  no  dreaming  and  for  snorin  at  the 
same  time.  What  for  blaw  a  trumpet  through  the  hail 
house  at  the  dead  o'  nicht,  just  to  tell  that  you've  lost  your 
soul  and  your  senses,  and  become  a  breathin  clod  ?  What 
a  blow  it  maun  be  to  a  man  to  marry  a  snorin  woman  ! 
Think  o'  her  during  the  haill  hinnymoon,  resting  her  head, 
with  a  long,  gurgling,  snorting  snore,  on  her  husband's  bosom  ! 

North.  Snoring  runs  in  families  ;  and,  like  other  hereditary 
complaints,  occasionally  leaps  over  one  generation,  and  de 
scends  on  the  next.  But  my  son,  I  have  no  doubt,  will  snore 
like  a  trooper. 


A  Storm  at  Tomintoul  125 

Shepherd.  Your  son  ?  !  Try  the  toddy,  sir.     Your  son  ?  ! 

North.  The  jug  is   a  most  excellent  one,  James.     Edin 
burgh  is  supplied  with  very  fine  water. 

Shepherd.  Gie  me  the  real  Glenleevit — such  as  Awmrose 
aye  has  in  the  hoose — and  I  weel  believe  that  I  could  mak 
drinkable  toddy  out  o'  sea-water.  The  human  mind  never 
tires  o'  Glenleevit,  ony  mair  than  o'  cauler*air.  Jf  a  body 
could  just  find  out  the  exac  proper  proportion  o'  quantity 
that  ought  to  be  drank  every  day,  and  keep  to  that,  I  verily 
trow  that  he  micht  leeve  for  ever,  without  dying  at  a,'  and 
that  doctors  and  kirkyards  would  go  out  of  fashion. 

North.  Have  you  had  any  snow  yet,  James,  in  the  Forest? 

Shepherd.  Only  some  skirrin  f  sleets — no  aneuch  to  track  a 
hare.  But,  safe  us  a'  !  what  a  storm  was  yon,  thus  early  in 
the  season,  too,  in  the  Highlands !  I  wush  I  had  been  in 
Tamantowl  J  that  nicht.  No  a  wilder  region  for  a  snow 
storm  on  a'  the  yearth.  Let  the  wun'  come  frae  what  airt  it 
likes,  richt  doun  Glen  Aven,  or  up  frae  Gran  town,  or  across 
frae  the  woods  o'  Abernethy,  or  far  aff  frae  the  forests  at  the 
Head  o'  Dee,  you  wad  think  that  it  was  the  deevil  himsel 
howlin  wi'  a'  his  legions.  A  black  thunderstorm's  no  half 
sae  fearsome  to  me  as  a  white  snaw  ane.  There  is  an  ocular 
grandeur  in  it.  wi'  the  opening  heavens  sending  forth  the 
flashes  o'  lichtnin,  that  brings  out  the  burnished  woods  frae 
the  distance  close  upon  you  where  you  staun,  a'  the  time  the 
hills  rattling  like  stanes  on  the  roof  o'  a  hoose,  and  the  rain 
either  descending  in  a  universal  deluge,  or  here  and  there 
pouring  down  in  straths,  till  the  thunder  can  scarcely  quell 
the  roar  o'  a  thousand  cataracts. 

North.  Poussin — Poussin — Poussin  ! 

Shepherd.  The  heart  quakes,  but  the  imagination  even  in 
its  awe  is  elevated.  You  still  have  a  hold  on  the  external 

*  Cauter— fresh.  1  Skiri^n— flying.  $  A  village  in  Banffshlra- 


126  Lost  in  the  Drift. 

world,  and  a  lurid  beauty  mixes  with  the  magnificence,  till 
there  is  an  austere  joy  in  terror. 

North.  Burke — Burke — Burke — Edmund  Burke  ! 

Shepherd.  But  in  a  nicht  snaw-storm  the  ragin  world  o' 
elements  is  at  war  with  life.  Within  twenty  yards  o'  a 
human  dwelling,  you  may  be  remote  from  succor  as  at  the 
Pole.  The  drift  is  the  drift  of  death.  Your  eyes  are  extin 
guished  in  your  head — your  ears  frozen — your  tongue  dumb 
Mountains  and  glens  are  all  alike — so  is  the  middle  air  eddy 
ing  with  flakes  and  the  glimmerin  heavens.  An  army  would 
be  stopt  on  its  march — and  what  then  is  the  tread  o'  ae  puir 
solitary  wretch,  man  or  woman,  struggling  on  by  theirsel,  or 
sittin  doun,  ower  despairing  even  to  pray,  and  fast  congealin, 
in  a  sort  o'  dwam*  o'  delirious  stupefaction,  into  a  lump  o' 
icy  and  rustling  snaw  !  Wae's  me,  wae's  me !  for  that  auld 
woman  and  her  wee  granddauchter,  the  bonniest  lamb,  folk 
said,  in  a'  the  Highlands,  that  left  Tamantowl  that  nicht, 
after  the  merry  strathspeys  were  over,  and  were  never  seen 
again  till  after  the  snaw,  lying  no  five  hunder  yards  out  o' 
the  town,  the  bairn  wrapt  round  and  round  in  the  crone's 
plaid  as  weel  as  in  her  ain,  but  for  a'  that,  dead  as  a  flower- 
stalk  that  has  been  forgotten  to  be  taken  into  the  house  at 
nicht,  and  in  the  mornin  brittle  as  glass  in  its  beauty, 
although,  till  you  come  to  touch  it,  it  would  seem  to  be 
alive ! 

North.  With  what  very  different  feelings  one  would  read 
an  account  of  the  death  of  a  brace  of  Bagmen  f  in  the  snow  ! 
How  is  that  to  be  explained,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  You  see,  the  imagination  pictures  the  twa  Bag 
men  as  Cockneys.  As  the  snaw  was  getting  dour  at  thorn, 
and  gieiri  them  sair  flaffs  and  dads  on  their  faces,  spittin  in 
their  verra  een,  ruggin  their  noses,  and  blawin  upon  their 

*  Lnvam — swoou.  t  Commercial  travellers. 


The  Bagmen  in  the  Drift.  127 

blubbery  lips  till  they  blistered,  the  Cockneys  wad  be  wax 
ing  half  feared  and  half  angry,  and  damnin  the  "  Heelans," 
as  the  cursedest  kintra  that  ever  was  kittled.  But  wait 
awee,  my  gentlemen,  and  you'll  keep  a  lowner  sugh  or  you 
get  half-way  from  Dalnacardoch  to  Dalwhinnie.* 

North.  A  wild  district,  for  ever  whirring,  even  in  mist 
snow,  with  the  gorcock's  wing. 

Shepherd.  Whist — hand  your  tongue,  till  I  finish  the 
account  o'  the  death  of  the  twa  Bagmen  in  the  snaw.  Ane  o' 
their  horses — for  the  creturs  are  no  ill  mounted — slidders 
awa  doun  a  bank,  and  gets  jammed  into  a  snaw -stall,  where 
there's  no  room  for  turnin.  The  other  horse  grows  obstinate 
wi'  the  sharp  stour  in  his  face,  and  proposes  retreating  to 
Dalnacardoch,  tail  foremost ;  but  no  being  sae  weel  up  to 
the  walkin  or  the  trottin  backwards  as  that  English  chiel 
Townsend,  the  pedestrian,  he  cloitsf  doun  first  on  his  hurdies, 
and  then  on  his  tae  side,  the  girths  burst,  and  the  saddle 
hangs  only  by  a  tack  to  the  crupper. 

jyorth.  Do  you  know,  James,  that  though  you  are  mani 
festly  drawing  a  picture  intended  to  be  ludicrous,  it  is  to  me 
extremely  pathetic  ? 

Shepherd.  The  twa  Cockneys  are  now  forced  to  act  as  dis 
mounted  cavalry  through  the  rest  of  the  campaign,  and  sit 
doun  and  cry — pretty  babes  o'  the  wood — in  each  ither's 
arms  !  John  Frost  decks  their  noses  and  their  ears  with 
icicles — and  each  vulgar  physiognomy  partakes  of  the  pathetic 
character  of  a  turnip  making  an  appeal  to  the  feelings  on 
Halloween. — Dinna  sneeze  that  way  when  ane's  speakin,  sir  ! 

North.  You  ought  rather  to  have  cried,    "  God  bless  you.'* 

Shepherd.  A'  this  while  neither  the  snaw  nor  the  wund  has 
been  idle — and  baith  Cockneys  are  sitting  up  to  the  middle, 
poor  creturs — no  that  verra  cauld,  for  driftin  snaw  sune  begins 

*  In  the  Highlands  of  Perthshire.  t  Cloitst— falls  heavily. 


128  Death  in  the  Drift. 

to  fin'  warm  and  comfortable,  but  wae's  me !  unco,  unco 
sleepy — and  not  a  word  do  they  speak  ! — and  now  the  snaw 
is  up  to  their  verra  chins,  and  the  bit  bonny,  braw,  stiff, 
fause  shirt-collars,  that  they  were  sae  proud  o'  stickin  at  their 
chafts,  are  as  hard  as  airn,  for  they've  gotten  a  sair  Scotch 
starchin — and  the  fierce  North  cares  naeth ing  for  their  towsy 
hair  a'  smellin  wi'  Kalydor  and  Macassar,  no  it  indeed,  but 
twurls  it  a'  into  ravelled  hanks,  till  the  frozen  mops  bear 
nae  earthly  resemblance  to  the  ordinary  heads  o'  Cockneys  ; — 
and  hoo  indeed  should  they,  lying  in  sic  an  unnatural  and 
out-o'-the-way  place  for  them,  as  the  moors  atween  Dalnacar- 
doch  and  Dalwhinnie  ? 

North.  Oh,  James — say  not  they  perished  ! 

Shepherd.  Yes,  sir,  they  perished ;  under  such  circum 
stances,  it  would  have  been  too  much  to  expect  of  the  vital 
spark  that  it  should  not  have  fled.  It  did  so — and  a  pair  of 
more  interesting  Bagmen  never  slept  the  sleep  of  death.  Gie 
me  the  lend  o'  your  hankercher,  sir,  for  I  agree  wi'you  that 
the  picture's  verra  pathetic. 

North.  Did  you  read,  James,  in  one  of  Maga's  Leading 
Articles,  called  *'  Glance  over  Selby's  Ornithology,"  an  ac 
count  of  the  Red  Tarn  Raven  Club  devouring  the  corpse  of 
a  Quaker  on  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Helvellyn  ?* 

Shepherd.  Ay, — what  about  it?  I  could  hae  dune't  as 
weel  mysel. 

North.  Do  you  know,  James,  that  it  gave  great  offence  ? 

Shepherd.  I  hae  nae  doubt  that  the  birds  o'  prey  that  keep 
gorging  themsels  for  weeks  after  a  great  battle,  gie  great 
offence  to  thousands  o'  the  wounded, — picking  out  their  een, 
and  itherwise  hurting  their  feelings.  Here  a  bluidy  straight 
beak  tweakin  a  general  officer  by  the  nose,  and  there  a  no  less 
bluidy  crooked  ane  tearing  aff  the  ee-broos  o'  a  drummf  • , 

*  See  the  Recreations  of  Christopher  North,  vol.  iii.  p.  81. 


Pigeon-Murder.  129 

and  happin  aff  to  eat  them  on  the  hollow  round  o'  his  ain 
drum, — on  which  never  will  tattoo  be  beaten  ony  mair,  for  a 
musket-ball  has  gone  through  the  parchment,  and  the  "  stormy 
music,"  as  Cammel  ca's  it,  is  hushed  for  ever.  What  need  a 
description  o'  the  dreadfu'  field,  when  it  has  been  crappit  and 
fallowed  year  after  year,  gie  offence  to  ony  rational  reader  ? 
Surely  no  ;  and,  therefore,  why  shudder  at  a  joke  about  the 
death  o'  ae  Quaker? — Tuts,  tuts,  it's  a, nonsense. 

North.  James,  you  are  a  good  shot  ? 

Shepherd.  1  seldom  miss  a  haystack,  or  a  barn-door,  stand 
ing,  at  twenty  yards  ;  but  war  they  to  tak  wings  to  them 
selves  and  flee  away,  I  should  be  shy  o'  takin  on  ony  big  bet 
that  I  should  bring  them  down — especially  wi'  a  single 
barrel.  .  .  .  Nane  o'  your  pigeon-killers  for  me,  waitin  in 
cool  blood  till  the  bonny  burdies,  that  should  ne'er  be  shot  at 
a'  excep  when  they're  on  the  corn-stooks,  flee  out  o'  a  trap 
wi'  a  flutter  and  a  whirr  ;  and  then  prouder  men  are  they  nor 
the  Duke  o'  Wellington,  when  they  knock  down,  wi'  pinions 
ower  purple,  the  bright  birds  o'  Venus,  tumbling,  as  if  hawk- 
struck,  within  boun's,  or  carrying  aneath  the  down  o'  their 
bonny  bosoms  some  cruel  draps,  that  ere  nightfall  will  gar 
them  inoan  out  their  lives  amang  the  cover  o'  suburban 
groves. 

North.  So  you  have  no  pit}',  James,  for  any  other  birds 
but  the  birds  of  Venus  ? 

Shepherd.  I  canna  say  tl  lat  I  hae  muckle  pity  for  mony  o' 
the  ithers — mair  especially  wild-dyucks  and  whaups.  It's  a 
trial  that  Job  would  never  hae  come  through,  without  swearin 
— after  wading  half  the  day  through  marsh  and  fen,  some 
times  up  to  the  houghs,  and  sometimes  to  the  oxters,  to  see 
a  dizzen  or  a  score  o'  wild-dyucks  a'  risin  thegither,  about  a 
quarter  o'  a  mile  aff,  wi'  their  outstretched  bills  and  droopin 
doups,  maist  unmercifully  ill-made,  as  ane  might  mistake  it. 


130  What  are  Whaups  ? 

for  fleeing,  and  then  making  a  circle  half  a  mile  ayont  the 
reach  o'  slug,  gradually  fa'in  intil  a  mathemetical  figure  in 
Euclid's  Elements,  and  vanishin,  wi'  the  speed  o'  aigles,  in  the 
weather-gleam,*  as  if  they  were  aff  for  ever  to  Norway,  or  to 
the  North  Pole.  Dang  their  web-footed  soles — 

North.  James,  remember  where  you  are,  and  with 
whom — time,  place,  and  person.  No  maledictions  to-night  on 
any  part  o'  the  creation,  feathered  or  un-feathered.  During 
Christmas  holidays,  I  would  rather  err  on  the  side  of  undue 
humanity.  What  are  whaups  ? 

Shepherd.  That's  a  gude  ane  !  Ma  faith,  you  pruved  that 
you  kent  weel  aneuch  what  were  whaups  that  day  at  Yarrow- 
Ford,  when  you  devoored  twa,  stoop  and  roop,  f  to  the  as 
tonishment  o'  the  Tailor,  $  wha  begood  to  fear  that  you  would 
neist  §  eat  his  guse  for  a  second  coorse.  The  English  ca' 
whaups  curl -loos — the  maist  nonsensicalest  name  for  a  whaup 
ever  I  heard — but  the  English  hae  little  or  nae  imagination. 

North.  My  memory  is  not  so  good  as  it  used  to  be,  James 
— but  I  remember  it  now — "  Most  prime  picking  is  the 
whaup." 

Shepherd.  In  wuntur  they're  aff  to  the  sea — but  a'  simmer 
and  hairst  they  haunt  the  wide,  heathy,  or  rushy  and  boggy 
moors.  Ye  may  discover  the  whaup's  lang  nose  half  a  mile 
aff,  as  the  gleg-eed  cretur  keeps  a  watch  ower  the  wilderness, 
wi'  baith  sicht  and  smell. 

North.  Did  you  shoot  the  whaups  alluded  to  above,  James, 
— or  the  Tailor  himself  ? 

Shepherd.  Him — no  me.  But  mony  and  af  t's  the  time  that 
I  hae  lain  for  hours  ahint  some  auld  turf-dyke,  that  aiblins 
had  ance  enclosed  a  bit  bonny  kailyard  belanging  to  a  housie 

*  Weather-gleam — horizon.  t  Stoop  and  Roop. — stump  and  rump, 

t  The  flying  tailor  of  Ettrick,  an  eccentric  character,  celebrated  for  his 
agility. 
§  Neist.— next. 


Natural  History.  181 

noo  soopt  frae  the  face  of  the  yearth, — every  noo  and  than 
keekin  ower  the  grassy  rampart  to  see  gif  the  whaups,  thinkin 
themselves  alane,  were  takin  their  walk  in  the  solitude  ;  and 
gif  nane  were  there,  layin  mysel  doun  a'  my  length  on  my 
grufe*  and  elbow,  and  reading  an  ancient  ballant,  or  maybe 
tryin  to  croon  a  bit  sang  o'my  am,  inspired  by  the  lown  and 
lanesome  spat, — for  oh,  sir  !  haena  ye  aften  felt  that  the 
farther  we  are  in  body  frae  human  dwellings,  the  nearer  are 
we  to  their  ingles  in  sowl  ? 

North.  Often,  James — often.  In  a  crowd  I  am  apt  to  be 
sullen  or  ferocious.  In  solitude  I  am  the  most  benevolent  of 
men.  To  understand  my  character,  you  must  see  me  alone — 
converse  with  me — meditate  on  what  I  then  say — and  behold 
my  character  in  all  its  original  brightness. 

Shepherd.  The  dearest  thocht  and  feelings  o?  auld  lang  syne 
come  crowd,  crowdin  back  again  into  the  heart  whenever 
there's  an  hour  o'  perfect  silence,  just  like  so  many  swallows 
coming  a-wing  frae  God  knows  where,  when  winter  is  ower 
and  gane,  to  the  self-same  range  o'  auld  clay  biggins,  aneath 
the,  thatch  o'  house  or  the  slate  o'  ha' — unforgetfu'  they  o' 
the  place  whare  they  were  born,  and  first  hunted  the  insect- 
people  through  shadow  or  sunshine  ! 

North.  I  wish  you  had  seen  Audubon,  James  ;  you  would 
have  taken  to  each  other  very  kindly,  for  you,  James,  are 
yourself  a  naturalist,  although  sometimes,  it  must  be  confessed, 
you  deal  a  little  in  the  miraculous  when  biographically  in 
clined  about  sheep,  dogs,  eagles,  and  salmon. 

Shepherd.  The  ways  o'  the  creatures  o'  the  inferior  creation, 
as  we  choose  to  ca'  birds  and  beasts,  are  a'  miraculous  the- 
gither — nor  would  they  be  less  so  if  we  understood  better 
than  we  do  their  several  instincts.  Natural  History  is  just 
an  it  her  name  for  Natural  Theology — and  the  sang  o'  the 

*  Grufe—bellj. 


182  The  Calabrian  Harpers. 

laverock,  and  the  plumage  o'  the  goldfinch — do  they  not  alike 
remind  us  o'  God  ? 

North.  Hark  !  the  Calabrian  harpers.  Ring  the  bell,  James, 
and  we  shall  have  them  up-stairs  for  half  an  hour. 

Shepherd  (rings).  Awmrose — Awmrose — bring  my  fiddle. 
I'll  accompany  the  Calawbrians  wi'  voice  and  thairm. 


XI. 

THE  EXECUTION  OF  THE  MUTINEER 

Scene, — Ambrose's  Hotel,  Picardy  Place — Paper  Parlor. 

NORTH. — SHEPHERD. 

North.  How  do  you  account,  my  dearest  Shepherd,  for  the 
steadiness  and  perseverance  of  my  affection  for  thee,  seeing 
that  I  am  naturally  and  artificially  the  most  wayward,  fickle, 
and  capricious  of  all  God's  creatures  ?  Not  a  friend  but 
yourself,  James,  with  whom  I  have  not  frequently  and  bit 
terly  quarrelled,  often  to  the  utter  extinction  of  mutual 
regard  —  but  towards  my  incomprehensible  Brownie  my 
heart  ever  yearns — 

Shepherd.  Haud  your  leein  tongue,  ye  tyke,  you've  quar 
relled  wi'  me  mony  thousan'  times,  and  I've  borne  at  your 
hands  mair  ill-usage  than  I  wad  hae  taen  frae  ony  ither 
mortal  man  in  his  Majesty's  dominions.  Yet  I  weel  believe 
that  only  the  shears  o'  Fate  will  ever  cut  the  cords  o'  our 
friendship.  I  fancy  it's  just  the  same  wi'  you  as  wi'  me,  we 
maun  like  ane  anither  whether  we  wull  or  no — and  that's  the 
sort  o'  freendship  for  me — for  it  flourishes,  like  a  mountain 
flower,  in  all  weathers — braid  and  bricht  in  the  sunshine, 
and  just  faulded  up  a  wee  in  the  sleet,  sae  that  it  micht  maist 
be  thocht  dead,  but  fu'  o'  life  in  its  cozy  bield  *  ahint  the 

*  Cozy  bield— snug  shelter. 

133 


134  The  Spark  of  Immortality. 

mossy  stane,  and  peering  out  again  in   a'  its  beauty  at  the 
sang  o'  the  rising  laverock. 

North.  This  world's  friendships,  James — 
Shepherd.  Are  as  cheap  as  crockery,  and  as  easily  broken 
by  a  fa'.  They  seldom  can  bide  a  clash,  without  fleein  intil 
flinders.*  Oh,  sir,  but  maist  men's  hearts,  and  women's  too, 
are  like  toom  nits  f — uae  kernel,  and  a  splutter  o'  fushion- 
less  dust.  I  sometimes  canna  help  thinkin  that  there's  nae 
future  state. 

North.  Fie,  fie,  James ;  leave  all  such  dark  skepticism  to  a 
Byron — it  is  unworthy  of  the  Shepherd. 

Shepherd.  What  for  should  sae  mony  puir,  peevish,  selfish, 
stupid,  mean,  and  malignant  creatures  no  just  lie  still  in  the 
mools  among  the  ither  worms,  aneath  their  bits  o'  inscribed 
tombstones,  aiblins  railed  in,  and  a'  their  nettles,  wi'  painted 
airn-rails,  in  a  nook  o'  the  kirkyard  that's  their  ain  property, 
and  naebody's  wushin  to  tak  it  frae  them — what  for,  I  say, 
shouldna  they  lie  quate  in  skeleton  for  a  thousand  years,  and 
then  crummle,  crummle,  crummle  awa  intil  the  yearth  o'  which 
Time  is  made,  and  ne'er  be  reimmatterialeezed  into  Eternity  ? 
North.  This  is  not  like  your  usual  gracious* and  benign 
philosophy,  James  ;  but,  believe  me,  my  friend,  that  within 
the  spirit  of  the  most  degraded  wretch  that  ever  grovelled 
earthward  from  caudle-day  to  corpse-day,  there  has  been 
some  slumbering  spark  divine,  inextinguishable  by  the  death- 
damps  of  the  cemetery — 

Shepherd.  Gran'  words,  sir,  gran'  words,  nae  doubt,  mair 
especially  "  cemetery,"  which  I'm  fond  o'  usin  mysel,  as  often's 
the  subject  and  the  verse  will  alloo.  But  after  a',  is't  mair 
poetical  than  the  "  Grave  "  ?  Deevil  a  bit.  For  a  wee, 
short,  simple,  stiff,  stern,  dour,  and  fearsome  word,  commend 
me  to  the  "  Grave." 

*  binders— shivers.  t  Toom  nits— empty  nuta. 


The  Fear  of  Death.  13f) 

North.  Let  us  change  the  channel  of  our  discussion, 
James,  if  you  please — 

Shepherd.  What !  You're  no  feared  for  death,  are  you, 
sir? 

North.  I  am. 

Shepherd.  So  am  I.  There,  only  look  at  the  cawuit, 
expiring — faint,  feeble,  flickering,  and  just  like  a,ne  o'  us 
puir  mortal  human  creatures,  sair,  sair  unwilling  to  die ! 
Whare's  the  snuifers,  that  I  may  put  it  out  o'  pain  ?  I'm 
tell't  that  twa  folk  die  every  minute,  or  rather  every  mo 
ment.  Isna  that  fearsome  to  think  o'  ? 

North.  Ay,  James,  children  have  been  made  orphans,  and 
wives  widows,  since  that  wick  began  to  fill  the  room  with  its 
funereal  odor. 

Shepherd.  Nae  man  can  manage  snuffers  richt,  unless  he 
hae  been  accustomed  to  them  when  he  was  young.  In  the 
Forest  we  a'  use  our  fingers,  or  blaw  the  cawnles  out  wi'  our 
mouths,  or  chap  the  brass  sticks  wi'  the  stinkin  wicks  again' 
the  ribs — and  gin  there  was  a  pair  o'  snuffers  in  the  house, 
you  might  hunt  for  them  through  a'  the  closets  and  pressef 
for  a  fortnight,  without  their  ever  cas*tin  up. 

North.  I  hear  that  you  intend  to  light  up  Mount  Benger 
with  gas,  James.  Is  that  a  true  bill  ? 

Shepherd.  I  had  thochts  o't — but  the  gasometer,  I  find, 
comes  ower  high — so  I  shall  stick  to  the  "  Lang  Twas."  Oh, 
man,  noo  that  the  cawnle's  out,  isna  that  fire  unco  heart- 
some?  Your  face,  sir,  looks  just  perfeckly  ruddy  in  the 
bleeze,  and  it  wad  tak  a  pair  o'  poorfu'  specks  to  spy  out 
a  single  wrinkle.  You'll  leeve  yet  for  ither  twa  hundred 
Numbers. 

North.  And  then,  my  dear  Shepherd,  the  editorship  shall 
be  thine. 

Shepherd.  Na.     When  you're  dead,  Maga  will  be  dead. 

*  Cawnle— candle. 


136  The  Popularity  of  North. 

She'll  no  surveeve  you  ae  single  day.  Buried  shall  you  be  in 
ae  grave,  and  curst  be  he  that  disturbs  your  banes  !  Afore 
you  and  her  cam  out,  this  wasna  the  same  warld  it  has  been 
Bin'  syne.  Wut  and  wisdom  never  used  to  be  seen  linkin 
alang  thegither,  han'-in-han',  as  they  are  noo,  frae  a,e  end  o' 
the  month  to  the  ither  ; — there  wasna  prented  a  byuck  that 
garred  ye  break  out  at  ae  page  into  grief,  and  at  anither  into 
a  guffaw  ; — where  could  ye  foregather  wi'  *  sic  a  canty  f  crew 
o'  chiels  as  O'Doherty  and  the  rest,  passin  themselves  aff 
sometimes  for  real,  and  sometimes  for  fictious  characters,  till 
the  puzzled  public  glowered  as  if  they  had  flung  the  glamour 
ower  her  ? — and  oh,  sir,  afore  you  brak  out,  beautiful  as  had 
been  many  thousan'  thousan'  million,  billion,  trillion,  and 
quadrillion  nights  by  firesides  in  huts  or  ha's,  or  out-by  in 
the  open  air,  wi'  the  starry  heavens  resting  on  the  saft  hill- 
taps,  yet  a'  the  time  that  the  heavenly  bodies  were  perform 
ing  their  stated  revolutions — there  were  nae,  nae  NOCTES 
AMBROSIAN^E  ! 

North.  I  have  not,  I  would  fain  hope,  my  dear  James, 
been  altogether  useless  in  my  generation — but  your  partiality 
exaggerates  my  merits — 

Shepherd.  A  man  would  require  an  oss  magna  sonaturum 
to  do  that.  Suffice  it  to  say,  sir,  that  you  are  the  wisest  and 
wittiest  of  men.  Dinna  turn  awa  your  face,  or  you'll  get  a 
crick  in  your  neck.  There's  no  sic  a  popular  man  in  a' 
Britain  the  noo  as  Christopher  North.  Oh,  sir,  you'll  dee  as 
rich  as  Croesus — for  every  day  there's  wulls  makin  by  auld 
leddies  and  young  leddies,  leaving  you  their  residiatory 
legatee,  sometimes,  I  fear,  past  the  heirs,  male  or  female,  o' 
their  bodies,  lawfully  begotten. 

North.  No,  James  ;  I  trust  that  none  of  my  admirers,  since 
admirers  you  say  the  old  man  hath,  will  ever  prove  so  unprin- 

*  foregather  wi'— fall  in  with.  t  Canty— lively. 


The  Shepherd's  Bad  Luck.  137 

cipled  as  to  leave  their  money  away  from  their  own  kin. 
Nothing  can  justify  that — but  hopeless  and  incurable  vice  in 
the  natural  heirs. 

Shepherd.  I  wush  I  was  worth  just  twenty  thousan'  pounds. 
I  could  leeve  on  that — but  no  on  a  farden  less.  In  the  first 
place,  I  would  buy  three  or  four  pair  o'  tap-boots — and  I 
would  try  to  introduce  into  the  Forest  buckskin  breeks. 
I  would  neist,  sin'  naebody's  gien  me  ane  in  a  present,  buy  a 
gold  musical  snuff-box,  that  would  play  tunes  on  the  table. 

North.  Heavens  !  James — at  that  rate  you  would  be  a 
ruined  man  before  the  coming  of  Christmas.  You  would  see 
your  name  honorably  mentioned  in  the  Gazette. 

Shepherd.  Then  a  gold  twisted  watch-chain,  sax  gold  seals 
o'  various  sizes,  frae  the  bigness  o'  my  neive  amaist,  doun  to 
that  o'  a  kitty-wren's  egg. 

North.  Which  O'Doherty  would  chouse  you  out  of  at  brag 
some  night  at  his  own  lodgings,  after  the  play. 

Shepherd.  Catch  me  at  the  cairds,  unless  it  be  a  game  at 
Birky ;  *  for  I'm  sick  o'  Whust  itsel,  I've  sic  desperate  bad 
hauns  dealt  to  me  noo — no  an  ace  ance  in  a  month,  and  no 
that  unseldom  a  haun  without  a  face-caird,  made  up  o'  deuces, 
and  trays,  and  fours,  and  fives,  and  be  damned  to  them  ;  so 
that  to  tak  the  verra  weakest  trick  is  entirely  out  o'  my 
power,  except  it  be  by  main  force,  harling  the  cairds  to  me 
whether  the  opposite  side  wull  or  no  ;  and  then  at  the  close 
o'  the  round,  threepin  f  that  I  had  twa  honors — the  knave 
and  anither  ane.  Sic  bad  luck  hae  I  in  a'  chance  games,  Mr. 
North,  as  you  ken,  that  were  I  to  fling  dice  for  my  life  alang 
wi'  a  haill  army  o'  fifty  thousand  men,  I  wad  be  sure  to  be 
shot ;  for  I  would  fling  aces  after  some  puir  trumlin  drummer 
had  flung  deuces,  and  be  led  out  into  the  middle  o'  a  hollow 
square  for  execution. 

*  Anglict>.  Beggar-my-neighbor.  t  Threepin— asserting  pertinaciously 


138  The  Approach  of  the  Troops. 

North.  James,  you  are  very  excursive  this  evening  in  youi 
conversation — nobody  is  thinking  of  shooting  you,  James. 

Shepherd.  And  I'm  sure  that  I  hae  nae  thochts  o'  shootin 
mysel.  But  ance — it's  a  lang  time  syne — I  saw  a  sodger 
shot — dead,  sir,  as  a  door-nail,  or  a  coffin-nail,  or  ony  ither 
kind  o'  nail. 

North.  Was  it  in  battle,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  In  battle  ? — Na,  na ;  neither  you  nor  me  was 
ever  fond  o'  being  in  battle  at  ony  time  o'  our  lives. 

North.  I  was  Private  Secretary  to  Rodney  when  he  beat 
Langara,*  James. 

Shepherd.  Hand  your  tongue ! — What  a  crowd  on  the 
Links  f  that  day  !  But  a'  wi'  fixed,  whitish  faces— nae 
speakin — no  sae  muckle  as  a  whisper — a  fro-zen  dumbness 
that  nae  wecht  $  could  break  ! 

North.  You  mean  the  spectators,  James. 

Shepherd.  Then  the  airmy  appeared  in  the  distance  ;  for 
there  were  three  haill  regiments,  a'  wi'  fixed  beggonets ;  but 
nae  music — nae  music  for  a  while  at  least,  till  a'  at  ance, 
mercy  on  us  !  we  heard,  like  laigh  sullen  thunder,  the  somr 
o'  the  great  muffled  drum,  aye  played  on,  ye  ken,  by  a  black 
man  ;  in  this  case  an  African  neegger,  sax  feet  four ;  and 
what  bangs  he  gied  the  bass — the  whites  o'  his  een  rowin 
about  as  if  he  was  glad,  atween  every  stroke. 

North.  I  remember  him — the  best  pugilist  then  going,  for 
it  was  long  before  the  days  of  Richmond  and  Molineaux — 
and  nearer  forty  than  thirty  years  ago,  James. 

Shepherd.  The  tread  of  the  troops  was  like  the  step  o'  ae 
giant — sae  perfate  was  their  discippleen — and  afore  I  weel 
kent  that  they  were  a'  in  the  Links,  three  sides  o'  a  square 
were  formed — and  the  soun'  o'  the  great  drum  ceased,  as  at 

*  Off  Cape  St.  Vincent,  on  the  16th  of  January  1780. 
t  Links— downs.  I   Wecht— weight. 


The  Mutineer.  139 

an  inaudible  word  of  command,  or  wavin  o'  a  haun,  or  the 
lowerin  o'  a  banner.  It  was  but  ae  man  that  "vas  about  to 
die — but  for  that  ae  man,  had  their  awe  no  hindeieJ  them, 
twenty  thousan'  folk  wad  at  that  moment  hae  broken  out 
into  lamentations  and  rueful  cries — but  as  yet  not  a  tear  was 
shed — not  a  sigh  was  heaved — for  had  a'  that  vast  crowd 
been  sae  mony  images,  corpses  raised  up  by  cantrip  in  their 
death-claes,  they  couldna  hae  been  mair  motionless  than  at 
that  minute,  nor  mair  speechless  than  that  multitude  o'  leevin 
souls ! 

North.  I  was  myself  one  of  the  multitude,  James. 

Shepherd.  There,  a'  at  ance,  hoo  or  whare  he  came  frae 
nane  could  tell — there,  I  say,  a'  at  ance  stood  the  Mutineer. 
Some  tell't  me  afterwards  that  they  had  seen  him  marchin 
alang,  twa-three  yards  ahint  his  coffin,  wi'  his  head  just  a 
wee  thocht  inclined  downwards,  not  in  fear  o'  man  or  death, 
but  in  awe  o'  God  and  judgment,  keepin  time  wi'  a  military 
step  that  was  natural  to  him,  arid  no  unbecoming  a  brave 
man  on  the  way  to  the  grave,  and  his  een  fixed  on  the  green 
that  was  fadin  awa  for  ever  and  ever  frae  aneath  his  feet ; 
but  that  was  a  sicht  I  saw  not — for  the  first  time  I  beheld 
him  he  was  standin,  a'  unlike  the  ither  men,  in  the  middle  o' 
that  three-sided  square,  and  there  was  a  shudder  through  the 
haill  multitude,  just  as  if  we  had  been  a'  standin  haun  in 
haun,  and  a  natural  philosopher  had  gien  us  a  shock  o'  his 
electrical  machine.  "  That's  him — that's  him — puir,  puir 
fallow  !  Oh  !  but  he'  a  pretty  man  !  " — Such  were  the 
ejaculations  frae  thousan's  o'  women,  maist  o'  them  young 
anes,  but  some  o'  them  auld,  and  grey-headed  aneath  their 
mutches,  and  no  a  few  wi'  babies  sookin  or  caterwailin  at 
their  breasts. 

North.  A  pretty  girl  fainted  within  half-a-dozen  yards  of 
where  I  stood. 


140  At  the  Death  Scene. 

Shepherd.  His  name  was  Lewis  Mackenzie — and  as  fine  a 
young  man  he  was  as  ever  stepped  on  heather.  The  moment 
before  he  knelt  down  on  his  coffin,  he  seemed  as  fu'  o'  life  as 
if  he  had  stripped  aff  his  jacket  for  a  game  at  foot-ba,'  or  to 
fling  the  hammer.  Ay,  weel  micht  the  women-folk  gaze  on 
him  wi'  red,  weepin  een,  for  he  had  lo'ed  them  but  ower 
weel ;  and  mony  a  time,  it  is  said,  had  he  let  himsel  down 
the  Castle-rock  at  night,  God  knows  hoo,  to  meet  his  lemans 
— but  a'  that,  a'  his  sins,  and  a'  his  crimes,  acted  and  only 
meditated,  were  at  an  end  noo — puir  fallow — and  the  platoon, 
wi'  fixed  beggonets,  were  drawn  up  within  ten  yards,  or  less, 
o'  where  he  stood,  and  he  himsel  havin  tied  a  handkerchief 
ower  his  een,  dropped  down  on  his  knees  on  his  coffin,  wi' 
faulded  hands,  and  lips  noviug  fast,  fast,  and  white  as  ashes, 
in  prayer ! 

North.  Cursed  be  the  inexorable  justice  of  military  law ! — 
he  might  have  been  pardoned. 

Shepherd.  Pardoned  !  Hadna  he  disarmed  his  ain  captain 
o'  his  sword,  and  ran  him  through  the  shouther — in  a  mutiny 
of  which  he  was  himsel  the  ringleader  ?  King  George  on 
the  throne  durstna  hae  pardoned  him — it  wad  hae  been  as 
much  as  his  crown  was  worth — for  hoo  could  King,  Kintra, 
and  Constitution  thole  a  standing  army  in  which  mutiny  was 
not  punished  wi'  death  ? 

North.  Six  balls  pierced  him — through  head  and  heart — 
and  what  a  shriek,  James,  then  arose ! 

Shepherd.  Ay,  to  hae  heard  that  shriek,  you  wad  hae 
thought  that  the  women  that  raised  it  wad  never  hae  lauched 
again  ;  but  in  a  few  hours,  as  sune  as  nightfall  darkened  the 
city,  some  o'  them  were  gossipin  about  the  shootin  o'  the 
sodger  to  their  neighbors,  some  dancin  at  hops  that  shall  be 
nameless,  some  sittin  on  their  sweethearts'  knees,  wi'  their 
arms  roun'  their  necks,  some  swearin  like  troopers,  some 


The  Mutineer  s  Father.  141 

doubtless  sittin  thochtfu'  by  the  fireside,  or  awa  to  bed  in 
sadness  an  hour  sooner  than  usual,  and  then  fast  asleep. 

North.  I  saw  his  old  father,  James,  with  my  own  eyes, 
step  out  from  the  crowd,  and  way  being  made  for  him,  he 
walked  up  to  his  son's  dead  body,  and  embracing  it,  kissed 
his  bloody  head,  and  then  with  clasped  hands  looked  up  to 
heaven. 

Shepherd.  A  strang  and  stately  auld  man,  and  ane,  too, 
that  had  been  a  soldier  in  his  youth.  Sorrow,  not  shame, 
somewhat  bowed  his  head,  and  ance  he  reeled  as  if  he  were 
faint  on  a  sudden. — But  what  the  deevil's  the  use  o'  me 
haverin  awa  this  way  about  the  shootin  o'  a  sodger,  thretty 
years  sin'  syne,  and  mair  too — for  didna  I  see  that  auld, 
silvery-headed  father  o'  the  mutineer  staggering  alang  the 
Grassmarket,  the  verra  next  day  after  the  execution,  as  fou 
as  the  Baltic,  wi'  a  heap  o'  mischievous  weans  hallooin  after 
him,  and  him  a'  the  while  in  a  dwam  o'  drink  and  despair, 
maunderin  about  his  son  Lewis,  then  lyin  a'  barken'd  wi' 
blood  in  his  coffin,  six  feet  deep  in  a  fine  rich  loam. 

North.  That  very  same  afternoon  I  heard  the  drums  and 
fifes  of  a  recruiting  party,  belonging  to  the  same  regiment, 
winding  away  down  towards  Holyrood  ;  and  the  place  of 
Lewis  Mackenzie  in  the  line  of  bold  sergeants  with  their 
claymores,  was  supplied  by  a  corporal,  promoted  to  a  triple 
bar  on  his  sleeve  in  consequence  of  the  death  of  the 
mutineer. 

Shepherd.  It  was  an  awfu'  scene,  yon,  sir ;  but  there  was 
naething  humiliating  to  human  nature  in  it — as  in  a  hangin ; 
and  it  struck  a  wholesome  fear  into  the  souls  o'  many  thousan' 
sodgers. 

North.  The  silence  and  order  of  the  troops,  all  the  while, 
was  sublime. 

Shepherd.  It  was  sae,  indeed. 


142  Toasted  Cheese. 

North.  What  do  you  think,  James,  of  that,  by  way  of  a 
toasting  cheese?  Ambrose  calls  it  the  Welshman's  delight, 
or  Davies'  darling. 

Shepherd.  It's  rather  teuch — luk,  luk,  hoo  it  pu's  out,  out, 
out,  and  better  out,  into  a  very  thread  o'  the  unbeaten  gold, 
a'  the  way  frae  the  ashet  to  my  mouth.  Saw  ye  ever  ouy- 
thing  sae  tenawcious  ?  I  verily  believe  that  I  could  walk, 
without  breakin't,  intil  the  tither  room.  Noon  that  I've 
gotten't  intil  my  mouth — I  wush  it  ever  may  be  gotten  out 
again  !  The  tae  *  end  o'  the  line  is  fastened,  like  a  hard 
gedd  f  (see  Dr.  Jamieson)  in  the  ashet — and  the  ither  end's 
in  my  stammach — and  the  thin  thread  o'  attenuated  cheese 
gets  at  ween  my  teeth,  sae  that  I  canna  chow't  through  and 
through.  Thank  ye,  sir,  for  cuttin't.  Rax  me  ower  the 
jug.  Is't  yill  ?  Here's  to  you,  sir. 

North.  Peebles  ale,  James.     It  has  a  twang  of  the  Tweed. 

Shepherd.  Tweed  !  Do  you  ken,  Mr.  North,  that  last 
simmer  t  the  Tweed  ran  dry,  and  never  flowed  sin'  syne. 
They're  speakin  o'  takin  doun  a'  the  brigs  frae  Erickstane  to 
Berwick,  and  changing  the  channel  iutil  the  turnpike  road. 
A'  the  materials  are  at  haun,  and  it's  a'  to  be  macadameezed. 

North.  The  Steam-Engine  Mail-Coach  is  to  run  that  road 
in  spring. 

Shepherd.  Is't  ?  She'll  be  a  dangerous  vehicle — but  I'll 
tak  my  place  in  the  safety-valve.  But  jeestin  apairt,  do  you 
ken,  sir,  that  mony  and  mony  a  wee  well  among  the  hills  and 
mountains  was  really  dried  up  by  the  drought  o'  three  dry 
simmers — and  for  them  my  heart  was  wae,  as  if  they  had 
been  ance  leeviri  things  !  Eor  werena  they  like  leevin  things, 
aye  sae  calm,  and  clear,  and  bright,  and  sae  contented,  ilka 
ane  by  itsel,  in  far-awa  spats,  whare  the  grass  ruukled  on]  7 

*  Tae— one.  t  Gedd— a,  pike-staff  stuck  into  the  ground, 

t  The  summer  of  1826  was  memorable  for  its  drought. 


"  Plenty  without  them!"  143 

to  the  shepherd's  foot  twa-three  times  a  year,  and  a'  the  rest 
o'  the  sun's  annual  visit  roun'  the  globe  lay  touched  only 
hy  the  wandering  light  and  shadows  ! 

North.  Poo — poo — James — there's  plenty  of  water  in  the 
world  without  them. 

Shepherd.  Plenty  o'  water  in  the  world  without  them  ? 
Ay,  that  there  is,  and  mair  than  plenty — but  what's  that  to 
the  purpose,  ye  auld  haveral  ?  Gin  five  thousan'  bonny 
bairns  were  to  be  mawn  doun  by  the  scythe  o'  Death  during 
the  time  that  I'm  drinking  this  glass — (oh,  man,  but  this  is 
a  grand  jug,  aiblins  rather  ower  sweet,  and  rather  ower  strong, 
but,  that's  twa  gude  fauts) — there  wad  be  plenty  o'  bairns 
left  in  the  warld,  legitimate  and  illegitimate — and 
you  nor  me  micht  never  miss  them.  But  wadna  there 
be  just  sae  much  extinguishment,  or  annihilation  like,  o' 
beauty  and  bliss,  o'  licht  and  lauchter,  o'  ray-like  ringlets, 
and  lips  that  war  nae  sweeter,  for  naething  can  be  sweeter, 
than  the  half-opened  buds  o'  moss-roses,  when  the  morning  is 
puttin  on  her  claes,  but  lips  that  were  just  as  sweet  when 
openin  and  shuttin  in  their  balmy  breath,  when  ilka  happy 
bairn  was  singing  a  ballant  or  a  psalm,  baith  alike 
pious  and  baith  alike  pensive ;  for  a'  the  airs  o'  Scotland 
(excep  a  gey  hantle,  to  be  sure,  o'  wicket  tunes)  soun'  aye 
to  me  mair  melancholy  than  mirthfu',  spirit-like,  and  as  if 
of  heavenly  origin,  like  the  bit  lown  musical  soun's  that  go 
echoing  by  the  ear,  or  rather  the  verra  soul  o'  the  shepherd 
leaning  on  his  staff  at  nicht,  when  a'  the  earth  is  at  rest,  and 
lookin  up,  and  ower,  and  through  into  the  verra  heart  o' 
heaven,  when  the  lift  is  a'  ae  glorious  glitter  o'  cloudless 
stars  !  You're  no  sleepy,  sir  ? 

North.  Sleepy!  You  may  as  well  ask  the  leader  in  a 
tandem  if  he  be  sleepy,  when  performing  the  match  of  twei  ty- 
eight  miles  in  two  hours  without  a  break. 

Shepherd.  Ae  spring  there  is — in  a  nook  known  but  to  me 


144  TJie  Shepherd's  Past. 

and  anither,  a  bit  nook  greener  than  ony  emerald — or  even 
the  Queen  Fairy's  symar,  as  she  disentangles  it  frae  her  feet 
in  the  moonlight  dance,  enclosed  wi'  laigh  broomy  rocks, 
amaist  like  a  sheep-fauld,  but  at  the  upper  end  made  lown  in 
a'  weathers  by  ae  single  stane,  like  the  last  ruin  o'  a  tower, 
smelling  sweet,  nae  doubt,  at  this  blessed  moment,  wi'  thyme, 
that  enlivens  even  the  winter  season, — ae  spring  there  is,  I 
say — 

North.  Dear  me  !  James — let  me  loosen  your  neckcloth — 
you  are  getting  black  in  the  face.  What  sort  of  a  knot  is 
this  ?  It  would  puzzle  the  ghost  of  Gordius  to  untie  it. 

Shepherd.  Dinna  mind  the  crauvat.  I  say,  Mr.  North, 
rather  were  my  heart  dried  up  to  the  last  drop  o'  blind,  than 
that  the  pulses  of  that  spring  should  cease  to  beat  in  the  holy 
wilderness. 

North.  Your  emotion  is  contagious,  James.  I  feel  the 
rheum  bedimming  my  aged  eyes,  albeit  unused  to  the  melt 
ing  mood. 

Shepherd.  You've  heard  me  tell  the  tale  afore — and  it's 
no  a  tale  I  tell  when  I  can  help  it — but  sometimes,  as  at  pres 
ent,  when  sittin  wi'  the  friend  I  love,  and  respect  and  ven 
erate,  especially  if,  like  you,  he  be  maist  like  a  father,  or  at 
least  an  elder  brither,  the  past  comes  upon  me  wi'  a'  the  power 
oj  the  present,  and  though  my  heart  be  sair,  ay,  sair  maist 
to  the  verra  breakin,  yet  I  maun  speak— for  though  big  and 
great  griefs  are  dumb,  griefs  there  are,  rather  piteous  and 
profound,  that  will  shape  themselves  into  words,  even  when 
iiane  are  by  to  hear — nane  but  the  puir  silly  echoes,  that  can 
only  blab  the  twa-three  last  syllables  o'  a  secret. 

North.  To  look  on  you,  James,  an  ordinary  observer  would 
think  that  you  had  never  had  any  serious  trials  in  this  life — 
that  Doric  laugh  of  thine,  my  dear  Shepherd — 

Shepherd.  I  hate  and  despise  ordinary  qJbservcTs,  and  thank 


u  Ordinary  Observers." 

God  that  they  can  ken  naething  o'  me  or  my  character. 
The  pitifu'  creturs  aye  admire  a  man  wi'  a  lang  nose,  hollow 
cheeks,  black  een,  swarthy  cheeks,  and  creeshy  hair  ;  and 
tauk  to  ane  anither  about  his  interesting  melancholy,  arid 
severe  misfortunes ;  and  hoo  he  had  his  heart  weel-nigh 
broken  by  the  death  o'  twa  wives,  and  the  loss  o'  a  third 
evangelical  miss,  wha  eloped,  after  her  wedding-claes  had 
been  taen  aff  at  the  haberdasher's,  wi'  a  play-actor  wha  had 
ance  been  a  gentleman — that  is,  attached  to  the  commissaw- 
riat  department  o'  the  army  in  the  Peninsula,  a  dealer  in 
adulterated  flour  and  mule-flesh  sausages. 

North.  Interesting  emigrants  to  Van  Diemen's  Land. 

Shepherd.  A  man  wi'  buck-teeth  and  a  cockit  nose,  like 
me,  they'll  no  alloo  to  be  a  martyr  to  melancholy ;  but  be 
cause  they  see  and  hear  me  lauchin  as  in  Peter's  Letters,* 
scoot  the  idea  o'  my  ever  geein  way  to  grief,  and  afttimes 
thinkin  the  sweet  light  o'  heaven's  blessed  sunshine  darkened 
by  a  black  veil  that  flings  a  correspondin  shadow  ower  the 
seemingly  disconsolate  yearth. 

North.  Most  of  the  good  poets  of  my  acquaintance  have 
light-colored  hair. 

Shepherd.  Mine  in  my  youth  was  o'  a  bricht  yellow. 

North.  And  a  fine  animal  you  were,  James,  I  am  told,  as 
you  walked  up  the  transe  o'  the  kirk,  with  your  mane  flying 
over  your  shoulders,  confined  within  graceful  liberty  by  a 
blue  ribbon,  the  love-gift  of  some  bonny  May,  that  wonned 
amang  the  braes,  and  had  yielded  you  the  parting  kiss,  just 
as  the  cottage  clock  told  that  now  another  week  was  past, 
and  you  heard  the  innocent  creature's  heart  beating  in  the 
hush  o'  the  Sabbath  morn. 

Shepherd.  Whisht,  whisht ! 

•  Peter's  Letters  to  his  Kinsfolk,  1819.    These  lively  sketches  of  Edinburgh 
society  and  its  celebrities  were  from  the  pen  and  the  pencil  of  Mr.  Lockhart. 


146  The  Tale  of  the  Haunted  Well. 

North.  But  we  have  forgotten  the  Tale  of  the  Haunted 
Well. 

Shepherd.  It's  nae  Tale — for  there's  naething  that  could 
be  ca'd  an  incident  in  a'  that  I  could  say  about  that  well ! 
Oh !  sir — she  was  only  twa  months  mair  than  fifteen — and 
though  she  had  haply  reached  her  full  stature,  and  was  some 
what  taller  than  the  maist  o'  our  Forest  lassies,  yet  you  saw 
at  ance  that  she  was  still  but  a  bairn.  I  was  a  hantle  aulder 
than  her — and  as  she  had  nae  brither,  I  was  a  brither  to  her 
— neither  had  she  a  father  or  mither,  and  ance  on  a  day, 
when  I  said  to  her  that  she  Wad  find  baith  in  me,  wha  loved 
her  for  her  goodness  and  her  innocence,  the  puir  britherless, 
sisterless,  parentless  orphan  had  her  face  a'  in  ae  single  in 
stant  as  drenched  in  tears  as  a  flower  cast  up  on  the  sand  at 
the  turn  o'  a  stream  that  has  brought  it  down  in  a  spate  frae 
the  far-aff  hills. 

North.  Her  soul,  James,  is  now  in  heaven  ! 

Shepherd.  The  simmer  afore  she  died,  she  didna  use  to 
come  o'  her  ain  accord,  and,  without  being  asked  in  aueath 
my  plaid,  when  a  skirring  shower  gaed  by — I  had  to  wise  * 
her  in  within  its  faulds— arid  her  head  had  to  be  held  down 
by  an  affectionate  pressure,  almost  like  a  faint  force,  on  my 
breast — and  when  I  spak  to  her,  half  in  earnest  half  in  jest, 
o'  love,  she  had  nae  heart  to  lauch, — sae  muckle  as  to  greet !. 

North.  One  so  happy  and  so  innocent  might  well  shed 
tears. 

Shepherd.  There,  beside  that  wee,  still,  solitary  well,  have 
we  sat  for  hours  that  were  swift  as  moments,  and  each  o' 
them  filled  fu'  o'  happiness  that  wad  noo  be  aneuch  for  years  ! 

North.  For  us,  and  men  like  us,  James,  there  is  on  earth 
no  such  thing  as  happiness.  Enough  that  we  have  known  it. 

Shepherd.  I  should  fear  noo  to  face  sic  happiness  as  used 

*  Wise— entice. 


Disenchantment.  147 

to  be  there,  beside  that  well — sic  happiness  would  noo  turn 
my  brain — but  nae  fear,  nae  fear  o'  its  ever  returuin,  for 
that  voice  went  wavering  awa  up  to  heaven  from  this  mute 
earth,  and  on  the  nicht  when  it  was  heard  not,  and  never 
more  was  to  be  heard,  in  the  psalm,  in  my  father's  house,  I 
knew  that  a  great  change  had  been  wrought  within  me,  and 
that  this  earth,  this  world,  this  life  was  disenchanted  for  ever, 
and  the  place  that  held  her  grave  a  Paradise  no  more ! 

North,  A  fitter  place  of  burial  for  such  an  one  is  not  on 
the  earth's  surface,  than  that  lone  hill  kirkyard,  where  she 
hath  for  years  been  sleeping.*  The  birch  shrub  in  the  south 
corner  will  now  be  quite  a  stately  tree. 

Shepherd.  I  visit  the  place  sae  regularly  every  May-day  in 
the  morning,  every  Midsummer-day,  the  langest  day  in  the 
year,  that  is,  the  twenty-second  o'  June,  in  the  gloaming, 
that  I  see  little  or  nae  alteration  on  the  spat,  or  onything 
that  belangs  to  it.  But  nae  doubt,  we  are  baith  grown  aulder 
thegither;  it  in  that  solitary  region,  visited  by  few  or  none 
— except  when  there  is  a  burial — and  me  sometimes  at  Mount 
Benger,  and  sometimes  in  here  at  Embro',  enjoyin  mysel  at 
Ambrose's — for,  after  a',  the  world's  no  a  bad  world,  although 
Mary  Morisori  be  dead — dead  and  buried  thirty  years  ago, 
and  that's  a  lang  portion  o'  a  man's  life,  which  is,  scripturally 
speakin,  somewhere  about  threescore  and  ten. 

North.  I  have  not  seen  any  portrait  of  you,  James,  in  any 
late  Exhibition  ? 

*  This  lonely  churchyard,  on  the  shore  of  St.  Mary's  Loch,  is  thus  described 
by  Scott  :— 

"  Nought  living  meets  the  eye  or  ear, 
But  well  I  ween  the  dead  are  near  ; 
For  though,  in  feudal  strife,  a  foe 
Hath  laid  Our  Lady's  chapel  low, 
Vet  still,  beneath  the  hallovy'd  soil, 
The  peasunt  rests  him  from  his  toil, 
And,  dying,  bids  his  bones  be  laid 
Where  erst  his  simple  fathers  prayed." 

Marmion,  introd.  to  Canto  II. 


148  Frost  and  Whisky-toddy. 

Shepherd.  Nor  me  o'  you,  sir.  What  for  doesna  Watson 
Gordon  immortaleeze  himsel  by  paintin  a  Portrait  o'  Christo 
pher  North  ?  *  But  oh,  sir !  but  you  hae  gotten  a  kittle  face 
— your  een's  sae  changefu'  in  their  gleg  expression,  and  that 
mouth  o'  yours  takes  fifty  shapes  and  hues  every  minute, 
while,  as  for  your  broos,  they're  noo  as  smooth  as  those 
o'  a  lassie,  and  noo  as  frownin  as  the  broos  o'  a  Saracen's 
head. 

North.  There  is  nothing  uncommon  in  my  face,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Oh,  sir,  you  hae  indeed  a  kittle,  kittle  face, 
and  to  do  it  justice  it  should  be  painted  in  a  Series.  Ane 
micht  ken  something  o'  your  physiognomy  in  the  coorse  o'  a 
Gallery.  .  .  .  But  nae  rnair  about  pictures  for  ae  nicht,  if 
you  please,  sir. 

North.  Unless  I  am  much  mistaken  indeed,  James,  you 
introduced  the  subject  yourself. 

Shepherd.  I'll  bet  you  anither  jug  I  did  nae  sic  thing. 

North.  Done. 

Shepherd.  But  wha'll  decide  ?  Let's  drink  the  jug,  though, 
in  the  first  place.  It's  quite  a  nicht  this  for  whusky  toddy. 
Dinna  you  observe  that  a  strong  frost  brings  out  the  flavor 
o'  the  speerit  in  a  maist  surprising  manner,  and  gies't  a  mair 
precious  smell  o'er  the  haill  room  ?  It's  the  chemical  action, 
you  understun,  o'  the  cauld  and  heat,  the  frost  and  fire, 
working  on  a'  the  materials  o'  the  jug,  and  the  verra  jug  itsel, 
frae  nose  to  doup,  sae  that  sma'-still  becomes  perfect  nectar, 
on  which  Jupiter,  or  Juno  either,  micht  hae  got  drunk,  and 
Apollo,  after  a  haill  nicht's  screed,  risen  up  in  the  morning 
wi'  his  gowden  hair,  and  not  the  least  o'  a  headache,  nor 

*  The  best  portrait  extant  of  Professor  "Wilson  was  painted  by  Sir  John 
Watson  Gordon,  in  1850,  for  Mr.  John  Blackwood,  in  whose  possession  it 
now  is.  The  portrait  of  the  Ettrick  Shepherd  by  the  same  artist  is  also 
in  Mr.  Blackwood's  possession. 


Pride  has  a  Fall.  149 

crap-sick  as  he  druve  his  chariot  along  the  Great  Turnpike 
Road  o'  Heaven. 

North.  I  wish,  James,  you  would  write  a  Tragedy. 

Shepherd.  I  hae  ane  in  my  pouch,  man — "  Mirk  Monday."  * 

North.  No  poet  of  this  age  has  shown  sufficient  concentra 
tion  of  thought  and  style  for  tragedy.  All  the  living  poets 
are  loose  and  lumbering  writers — and  I  will  engage  to  point 
out  halt'-a-dozen  feeblenesses  or  faults  of  one  kind  or  another 
in  any  passage  of  six  lines  that  you,  James,  will  recite  from 
the  best  of  them. 

Shepherd.  He's  gettin  fuddled  noo,  I  see,  or  he  wadna  be 
haverin  about  poetry. — Mr.  North,  you're  as  sober  as  when 
we  begood  to  the  saxth  jug  afore  the  ane  that  was  the  imme 
diate  predecessor  o'  this  jug's  great-grandfather — but  as  for 
me,  I'm  him'  fou,  and  rather  gizzy.  I  canna  comprehend 
hoo  we  got  into  this  room,  and  still  less  hoo  we're  to  get  out 
again — 'for  I'll  stake  my  character  that  there's  no  ae  single 
door  in  a'  the  four  wa's.  I  shouldtia  care  gin  there  was  a 
shake-down  or  a  suttee  ;  but  I  never  could  sleep  wi'  a  straught 
back.  Mercy  on  us !  the  haill  side  o'  the  house  is  fa'en  doon, 
as  in  the  great  earthquake  at  Lisbon.  Steady — -sir — steady — • 
that's  Mr.Awmrose— you  ken  Mr.Awmrose.  (Awmrose,  he's 
far  gane  the  nicht,  and  I'm  feered  the  fresh  air'll  coup  and 
capsize  him  a'thegither.) 

North.  Mr.  Ambrose,  don't  mind  me — give  Mr.  Hogg  your 
arm.  James,  remember  there  are  a  couple  of  steps.  There 
now — I  thought  Pride  would  have  a  Fall  at  last,  James  ! 
Now,  coachy  !  !  drive  to  the  devil.  [Exeunt. 

*  The  sun  was  totally  eclipsed  on  Monday  the  24th  March  1652  ;  hence  the 
expression  Mirk  Monday. 


XII. 

IN  WHICH  THE  SHEPHERD  PAINTS  HIS  0  WN  POR 
TRAIT. 

Scene, — Ambrose's  ffotel,  Picardy  Place — Paper  Parlor. 
NORTH. — TICKLER. — SHEPHERD. 

North.  Doctors  are  generally  dull  dogs ;  and  nobody  in 
tolerable  health  and  spirits  wishes  to  hear  anything  about 
them  and  their  quackeries. 

Tickler.  Their  faces  are  indeed  at  all  times  most  absurd  ; 
but  more  especially  so  when  they  are  listening  to  your 
account  of  yourself,  and  preparing  to  prescribe  for  your 
inside,  of  which  the  chance  is  that  they  know  no  more  than 
of  the  interior  of  Africa. 

North.  And  yet,  and  yet,  my  dear  Tickler,  when  old  bucks 
like  us  are  out  of  sorts,  then,  like  sinners  with  saints,  we 
trust  to  the  sovereign  efficacy  of  their  aid,  and  feel  as  if  they 
stood  between  us  and  death.  There's  our  beloved  Shepherd, 
whose  wrist  beats  with  a  yet  unfelt  pulse — 

Shepherd.  I  dinna  despise  the  doctors.  In  ordinary  com 
plaints  I  help  mysel  out  o'  the  box  o'  drogs ;  and  I'm  never 
mair  nor  three  days  in  gettin  richt  again  ; — the  first  day,  for 
the  beginning  o'  the  complaint — dull  and  dowie,  sair  gien  to 
gauntin,  and  the  streekin  out  o'  ane's  arms,  rather  touchy  in 
the  temper,  and  no  easily  satisfied  wi'  onything  ane  can  get 
to  eat ; — tin*,  second  day,  in  bed,  wi'  a  nicht-cap  on,  or  a 

150 


The  Delight  of  Recovery.  151 

worsted  stockin  about  the  chafts,  shiverin  ilka  half-hour 
aneath  the  blankets,  as  if  cauld  water  were  pourin  doun 
your  back ;  a  stamach  that  scunners  at  the  very  thocht  o' 
fude,  and  a  sair  sair  head,  amaist  as  if  a  wee  deevil  were 
sittin  in't  knappin  stanes  wi'  an  airn  hammer ; — the  third 
day,  about  denner-time  hungrier  than  a  pack  o'  hounds,  yokin 
to  the  haggis  afore  the  grace,  and  in  imagination  mair  than 
able  to  devour  the  haill  jiget,  as  weel's  the  giblet-pie  and  the 
pancakes. 

North.  And  the  fourth  day,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Out  wi'  the  grews  gin  it  be  afore  the  month  o' 
March,  as  souple  and  thin  in  the  flanks  as  themsels — wi'  as 
gleg  an  ee — and  lugs  pricked  up  ready  for  the  start  o'  pussie 
frae  amang  the  windle-straes. — Halloo — halloo — halloo  ! — 
Oh,  man,  arena  ye  fond  o'  coorsin  ? 

Tickler.  Of  hare-soup  I  am — or  even  roasted  hare — but — 

Shepherd.  There  are  some  things  that  a  man  never  gets 
accustomed  to,  and  the  startin  o'  a  hare's  ane  o'  them  ; — so 
is  the  whurr  o'  a  covey  o'  paitricks — and  aiblins  so  is  the 
meetin  o'  a  bonny  lassie  a'  by  hersel  amang  the  bloomin 
heather,  when  she  seems  to  rise  up  frae  the  earth,  or  to  hae 
drapped  doun  frae  heaven. — Were  I  to  leeve  ten  thousan' 
years,  and  gang  out  wi'  the  grews  or  pointers  every  ither 
day,  I  sud  never  get  the  better  o'  the  dear  delightfu'  dirl  o' 
a  fricht,  when  pussie  starts  wi'  her  lang  horns. 

North.  Or  the  covey  whirrs — 

Tickler.  Or  the  bonny  lassie — 

Shepherd.  Oh,  man,  Tickler,  but  your  face  the  noo  is  just 
like  the  face  o'  a  satyr  in  a  pictur-byuck,  or  that  o'  an  auld 
stane-monk  keekin  frae  a  niche  in  the  corner  o'  an  abbey  wa' 
— the  leer  o'  the  holy  and  weel-fed  scoonrel's  een  seemin 
mair  intense  on  the  Sabbath,  when  the  kirkyard  is  fu'  o' 
innocent  young  maidens,  trippin  ower  the  tombs  to  the 


152  Wordsworth  drinks  Water. 

House  o'  Prayer !  Mr.  North,  sir,  only  look  at  the  face  o' 
him ! 

North.  Tickler,  Tickler,  give  over  that  face — it  is  absolutely 
getting  like  Hazlitt's.  We  will,  if  you  please,  James,  take 
each  a  glass — all  round — of  Glenlivet — to  prevent  infection. 

Shepherd.  Wi'  a'  my  heart. — Sic  a  change  in  the  expression 
o'  your  twa  faces,  sirs  !  Mr.  North,  you  look  like  a  man  that 
has  just  received  a  vote  o'  thanks  for  ha'in  been  the  instru 
ment  o'  some  great  national  deliverance. — Isna  that  wonderfu' 
whisky  ? — As  for  you,  Mr.  Tickler, — your  een's  just  like  twa 
jaspers — pree'd  ye  ever  the  like  o't  ? 

North.  Never,  so  help  me  Heaven  ! — never,  since  I  was 
born ! 

Shepherd.  Wordsworth  tells  the  world,  in  ane  o'  his  pre 
faces,  that  he  is  a  water-drinker — and  it's  weel  seen  on  him. 
— There  was  a  sair  want  of  speerit  through  the  haill  o'  yon 
lang  "  Excursion."  If  he  had  just  made  the  paragraphs 
about  ae  half  shorter,  and  at  the  end  of  every  ane  taen  a 
caulker,  like  ony  ither  man  engaged  in  geyan  sair  and  heavy 
wark,  think  na  ye  that  his  "  Excursion  "  would  hae  been 
far  less  fatiguesome  ? 

Tickler.  It  could  not  at  least  well  have  been  more  so, 
James, — and  I  devoutly  hope  that  that  cursed  old  Pedlar 
is  defunct.  Indeed,  such  a  trio  as  the  poet  himself,  the  pack 
man,  and  the  half-witted  annuitant — 

North.  My  friend  Wordsworth  has  genius,  but  he  has  no 
invention  of  character — no  constructiveness,  as  we  phrenolo 
gists  say. 

Shepherd.  He,  and  ither  folk  like  him,  wi'  gude  posts  and 
pensions,  may  talk  o'  drinkin  water  as  muckle's  they  choose 
— and  may  abuse  me  and  the  like  o'  me  for  preferrin  speerits 
— but — 

North.  Nobody  is  abusing  you,  my  dear  Shepherd — 


Hogg  prefers  "  Speerits"  153 

Shepherd.  Haud  your  tongue,  Mr.  North — for  I'm  geyan 
angry  the  noo — and  I  canna  thole  being  interrupted  when 
I'm  angry, — sae  haud  your  tongue,  and  hear  me  speak, — and 
faith,  gin  some  folk  were  here,  they  should  be  made  to  hear 
on  the  deafest  side  o'  their  heads. 

North.  Oyez  !     Oyez  !     Oyez  ! 

Shepherd.  Well,  then,  gentlemen,  it  cannot  be  unknown  to 
you  that  the  water-drinking  part  of  the  community  have  not 
scrupled  to  bestow  on  our  meetings  here,  on  the  Noctes  Am- 
brosianae,  the  scurrilous  epithet  of  Orgies ;  and  that  I,  the 
Shepherd,  have  come  in  for  the  chief  part  of  the  abuse.  I 
therefore  call  on  you,  Mr.  North,  to  vindicate  my  character  to 
the  public — to  speak  truth  and  shame  the  devil — and  to 
declare  in  Maga,  whether  or  not  you  ever  saw  me  once  the 
worse  of  liquor  during  the  course  of  your  career  ? 

North.  Is  it  possible,  my  dearest  friend,  that  you  can  trouble 
your  head  one  moment  about  so  pitiful  a  crew?  That  jug, 
James,  with  its  nose  fixed  upon  your's,  is  expressing  its  sur 
prise  that — 

Tickler.  Hogg,  Hogg,  this  is  a  weakness  which  I  could  not 
have  expected  from  you. — Have  you  forgotten  how  the  Spec 
tator,  and  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  and  others,  were  accused  of 
wine-bibbing  and  other  enormities  by  the  dunces  of  those  days  ? 

Shepherd.  Confound  their  backbiting  malignity  !  Is  there 
a  steadier  hand  than  that  in  a'  Scotland  ? — see  how  the  liquid 
quivers  to  the  brim,  and  not  a  drop  overflowing. — Is  my  nose 
red  ?  my  broo  blotched  ?  my  een  red  and  rheumy  ?  my  shanks 
shrunk  ?  my  knees,  do  they  totter  ?  or  does  my  voice  come 
from  my  heart  in  a  crinkly  cough,  as  if  the  lungs  were  rotten  ? 
Bring  ony  ane  o'  the  base  water-drinkers  here,  and  set  him 
doun  afore  me,  and  let  us  discuss  ony  subject  he  likes,  and 
see  whase  head's  the  clearest,  and  whase  tongue  wags  wi' 
maist  unfalteriu  freedom  ? 


L54  TJie  Shepherd's  Life. 

North.  The  tirst  thing,  James,  the  water-drinker  would  do, 
would  be  to  get  drunk,  and  make  a  beast  of  himself. 

Shepherd.  My  life,  Mr.  North,  as  you  ken,  has  been  ane  of 
some  vicissitudes,  and  even  now  I  do  not  eat  the  bread  of 
idleness.  For  ae  third  o'  the  twenty-four  hours,  tak  ae  day 
wi'  anither  throughout  the  year,  I'm  i'  the  open  air,  wi' 
heaven's  wind  and  rain,  perhaps,  or  its  hail  and  sleet,  and  they 
are  blessed  by  the  hand  that  sends  them,  Washing  against  me 
on  the  hill. — For  anither  third,  I  am  at  my  byucks — no  mony 
o'  them,  to  be  sure,  in  the  house — but  the  few  that  are,  no  the 
wark  o'  dunces,  ye  may  believe  that ;  or  aiblins  doin  my  best 
to  write  a  byuck  o'  my  ain,  or  if  no  a  byuck,  siccan  a  harm 
less  composition  as  ane  o'  my  bits  o'  "  Shepherd's  Calendars," 
or  the  like ; — or,  if  study  hae  nae  charms,  playing  wi'  the 
bairns,  or  hearing  them  their  lessons,  or  crackin  wi'  a  neigh 
bor,  or  sittin  happy  wi'  the  mistress  by  our  aiii  twa  sels, 
sayin  little,  but  thinkin  a  hantle,  and  feelin  mair.  For  the 
remaining  third,  frae  ten  at  nicht  to  sax  in  the  morning, 
enjoying  that  sweet  sound  sleep  that  is  the  lot  o'  a  gude  con 
science,  an  dout  o'  which  I  come  as  regular  at  the  verra  same 
minute  as  if  an  angel  gently  lifted  my  head  frae  the  pillow, 
and  touched  my  eyelids  with  awakening  licht, — no  forgettin, 
as  yoursel  kens,  Mr.North,  either  evening  or  morning  prayers, 
no  verra  lang  anes  to  be  sure,  except  on  the  Sabbath ;  but  as 
I  hope  for  mercy,  humble  and  sincere,  as  the  prayers  o'  us 
sinfu'  beings  should  ever  be — sinfu',  and  at  a'  times,  sleepin 
or  waukin,  aye  on  the  brink  o'  death  !  Can  there  be  ony 
great  harm,  Mr.  North,  in  a  life  that — saving  and  excepting 
always  the  corrupt  thochts  o'  a  man's  ain  heart,  which  has 
been  wisely  said  to  be  desperately  wicked — even  when  it  micht 
think  itsel,  in  its  pride,  the  verra  perfection  o'  virtue — 

North.  I  never  left  Altrive  or  Mount  Benger,  James,  with 
out  feeling  myself  a  better  and  a  wiser  man. 


TJie  Shepherd's  Temperance.  155 

Shepherd.  Nae  man  shall  ever  stop  a  nicht  in  my  house, 
without  partakin  o'  the  best  that's  in't,  be't  meat  or  drink  ; 
and  if  the  coof  *canna  drink  three  or  four  tummlers  or  jugs 
o'  toddy,  he  has  nae  business  in  the  Forest.  But  if  he  do 
nae  muir  than  follow  the  example  I'se  set  him,  he'll  rise  in 
the  morning  without  a  headache,  and  fa'  to  breakfast,  no 
wi'  that  fause  appeteet  that  your  drunkards  yoke  on  to  the 
butter  and  bread  wi',  and  the  eggs,  and  the  ham  and  baddies, 
as  if  they  had  been  shipwrecked  in  their  sleep,  and  scoured 
wi'  the  salt  water, — but  wi'  that  calm,  sane,  and  steady 
appeteet,  that  speaks  an  inside  sound  in  a'  its  operations  as 
clockwork,  and  gives  assurance  o'  a  lang  and  usefu'  life,  and 
a  large  family  o'  children. 

North.  Replenish  the  dolphin,  James. 

Shepherd.  She's  no  toom  f  yet. — Now,  sir,  I  ca'  that  no  an 
abstemious  life — for  why  should  ony  man  be  abstemious? — 
but  I  ca't  a  temperate  life,  and  o'  a'  the  virtues,  there's  nane 
mair  friendly  to  man  than  Temperance. 

Tickler.  That  is  an  admirable  distinction,  James. 

Shepherd.  I've  seen  you  forget  it,  sir,  howsomever,  in  prac 
tice — especially  in  eatin.  Oh,  but  you're  far  frae  a  temperate 
eater,  Mr.  Tickler.  You're  ower  fond  o'  a  great  heap  o' 
different  dishes  at  denner.  I'm  within  boun's  when  I  say 
I  hae  seen  you  devour  a  dizzen.  For  me,  sufficient  is  the 
Rule  of  Three.  I  care  little  for  soop — unless  kail,  or  cocky- 
leeky,  or  hare-soop,  or  mock-turtle,  which  is  really,  con- 
siderin  it's  only  mock,  a  pleasant  platefu' ;  or  hodge-podge, 
or  potawto-broth,  wi'  plenty  o'  mutton-banes,  and  weel 
peppered  ;  but  your  white  soops,  and  your  broon  soops,  and 
your  vermisilly,  I  think  naething  o',  and  they  only  serve  to 
spoil  without  satisfyin  a  gude  appeteet,  of  which  nae  man 
o'  senses  will  ever  tak  aff  the  edge  afore  he  attacks  a  dish 

*  Coqf—ninnj.  t  Toom— empty. 


156  The  Shepherd's  Tolerance. 

that  is  in  itself  a  denner.  I  like  to  bring  the  haill  power 
o'  my  stamach  to  bear  on  vittles  that's  worthy  o't,  and  no  to 
fritter't  awa  on  side-dishes,  sic  as  pates,  and  trash  o'  that 
sort,  only  fit  for  boardin-school  misses,  wi'  wee  shrimpit 
mouths,  no  able  to  eat  muckle,  and  ashamed  to  eat  even 
that ;  a'  covered  wi'  blushes,  puir  things,  if  ye  but  offer  to 
help  onything  ontil  their  plates,  or  to  tell  them  no  to  mind 
folk  starin,  but  to  mak  a  gude  denner,  for  that  it  will  do 
them  nae  harm,  but,  on  the  contrary,  mingle  roses  with  the 
lilies  of  their  delicate  beauty. 

Tickler.  Every  man,  James,  is  the  best  judge  of  what  he 
ought  to  eat,  nor  is  one  man  entitled  to  interfere — 

Shepherd.  Between  another  man  and  his  own  stomach ! 
— Do  you  mean  to  say  that?  Why,  sir,  that  is  even 
more  absurd  than  to  say  that  no  man  has  a  right  to 
interfere  between  another  and  his  own  conscience,  or 
his — 

Tickler.  And  is  that  absurd  ? 

Shepherd.  Yes,  it  is  absurd — although  it  has,  somehow  or 
other,  become  an  apothegm. — It  is  not  the  duty  of  all  men, 
to  the  best  o'  their  abilities  to  enlighten  ane  anither's  under 
standings  ?  And  if  I  see  my  brethren  o'  mankind  fa'  into  a' 
sorts  o'  sins  and  superstitions,  is't  nae  business  o'  mine,  think 
ye,  to  endeavor  to  set  them  right,  and  enable  them  to  act 
according  to  the  dictates  o'  reason  and  nature  ? — Hae  ye  read 
Boaden's  Life  o'  Siddons,  sir  ? 

North.  I  have,  James— and  I  respect  Mr.  Boaden  for  his 
intelligent  criticism.  He  is  rather  prosy,  occasionally — but 
why  not  ?  God  knows,  he  cannot  be  more  prosy,  than  I  am 
now  at  this  blessed  moment — yet  what  good  man,  were  he 
present  now,  would  be  severe  upon  old  Christopher  for 
havering  away  about  this,  that,  or  t'other  thing,  so  long  as 
there  was  heart  in  all  he  said,  and  nothing  contra  bonos 


Mrs.  Siddons  as  Lady  Macbeth.  157 

mores  ?  Sarah  was  a  glorious  creature.  Me  thinks  I  see  her 
now  in  the  sleep-walking  scene  ! 

Shepherd.  As  Leddy  Macbeth  !  Her  gran',  high,  straicht- 
nosed  face,  whiter  than  ashes !  Fixed  een,  no  like  the 
een  o'  the  dead,  yet  hardly  mair  like  them  o'  the  leevin ; 
dim  and  yet  licht  wi'  an  obscure  lustre,  through  which 
the  tormented  sowl  looked  in  the  chains  o'  sleep  and  dreams 
wi'  a'  the  distraction  o'  remorse  and  despair, — and  oh! 
sic  an  expanse  o*  forehead  for  a  warld  o'  dreadfu'  thochts, 
aneath  the  braided  blackness  o'  her  hair,  that  had  never 
theless  been  put  up  wi'  a  steady  and  nae  uncarefu'  haun 
before  the  troubled  Leddy  had  lain  doun,  for  it  behooved 
ane  so  high-born  as  she,  in  the  middle  o'  her  ruefu'  trouble, 
no  to  neglect  what  she  owed  to  her  stately  beauty,  and 
to  the  head  that  lay  on  the  couch  of  ane  o'  Scotland's 
Thanes — noo  likewise  about  to  be,  during  the  short  space  o' 
the  passing  o'  a  thunder-cloud,  her  bluidy  and  usurping 
King. 

North.  Whisht — Tickler — whisht — no  coughing. 

Shepherd.  Onwards  she  used  to  come — no  Sarah  Siddons^ 
but  just  Leddy  Macbeth  hersel — though  through  that  melan 
choly  masquerade  o'  passion,  the  spectator  aye  had  a  con 
fused  glimmerin  apprehension  o'  the  great  actress — glidin 
wi'  the  ghostlike  motion  o'  nicht-wandering  unrest,  uncon 
scious  o'  surroundin  objects, — for  oh  !  how  could  the  glazed 
yet  gleamin  een  see  aught  in  this  material  world  ? — yet,  by 
some  mysterious  power  o'  instinct,  never  touchin  ane  o'  the 
impediments  that  the  furniture  o'  the  auld  castle  micht  hae 
opposed  to  her  haunted  footsteps, — on  she  came,  wring, 
wringin  her  hauns,  as  if  washin  them  in  the  cleansin  dews 
frae  the  blouts  o'  blood, — but  wae's  me  for  the  murderess, 
out  they  wad  no  be,  ony  mair  than  the  stains  on  the 
spat  o'  the  floor  where  some  midnicht- slain  Christian 


158  Pastoral  Poetry. 

has  groaned  out  his  soul  aneath  the  dagger's  stroke, 
when  the  sleepin  hoose  heard  not  the  shriek  o'  departing 
life. 

Tickler.  North,  look  at  James's  face.  Confound  me, 
under  the  inspiration  of  the  moment,  if  it  is  not  like  John 
Kemble's  ! 

Shepherd.  Whether  a'  this,  sirs,  was  natural  or  not,  ye  see 
I  dinna  ken,  because  I  never  beheld  ony  woman,  either 
gentle  or  semple,  walkin  in  her  sleep  after  having  committed 
murder.  But,  Lord  safe  us  !  that  hollow,  broken-hearted 
voice,  "  Out,  damned  spot,"  was  o'  itsel  aneuch  to  tell  to  a' 
that  heard  it,  that  crimes  done  in  the  flesh  during  time  will 
needs  be  punished  in  the  spirit  during  eternity.  It  was  a 
dreadfu'  homily  yon,  sirs ;  and  wha  that  saw't  would  ever 
ask  whether  tragedy  or  the  stage  was  moral,  purging  the 
soul,  as  she  did  wi'  pity  and  wi'  terror  ? 

North.  James,  I'll  tell  you  a  kind  of  composition  that 
would  tell. 

Shepherd.  What  is't,  man  ?     Let's  hear't. 

North.  Pastoral  Dramatic  Poetry,  partly  prose  and  partly 
verse — like  the  "  Winter's  Tale,"  or  "  As  You  Like  It,"  or 
"  The  Tempest,"  or  "  The  Midsummer-Night's  Dream." 

Tickler.  Dramas  of  which  the  scenes  are  laid  in  the  country 
cannot  be  good,  for  the  people  have  no  character. 

Shepherd.  Nae  character's  better  than  a  bad  ane,  Mr. 
Tickler  ; — but  you  see,  sir,  you're  just  perfectly  ignorant  o' 
what  you're  talkin  about — for  it's  only  kintra-folk  that  has 
ony  character  ava, — and  town's-bodies  seem  to  be  a'  in  a 
slump.  Hoo  the  street  rins  wi'  leevin  creatures,  like  a 
stream  rinnin  wi'  foam-bells  !  What  maitter  if  they  a'  break 
as  they  gang  by  ?  For  another  shoal  succeeds  o'  the  same 
empty  race  ! 

North.  The  passions  in  the  country,  methinks,  James,  are 


Town  and  Country  Passions-  159 

[stronger  and  bolder,  and  more  distinguishable  from  each 
other,  than  in  the  towns  ? 

Shepherd.  Deevil  a  passion's  in  the  town,  but  envy,  and 
backbiting,  and  conceitedrtess.  As  for  friendship,  or  love, 
or  hate,  or  revenge — ye  never*meet  wi'  them  where  men  and 
women  are  a'  jumbled  throughither,  in  what  is  ca'd  ceevi- 
leesed  society.  In  solitary  places,  the  sicht  o'  a  human  face 
aye  brings  wi't  a  corresponding  feeling  o'  some  kind  or  ither 
— there  can  be  nae  sic  thing  as  indifference  in  habitations 
stannin  here  and  there,  in  woods  and  glens,  and  on  hill-sides 
and  the  shores  o'  lochs  or  the  sea. 

Tickler.  Are  no  robberies,  murders,  and  adulteries  perpe 
trated  in  towns,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Plenty — and  because  there  are  nae  passions  to 
guard  frae  guilt.  What  man  wi'  a  sowl  glowin  wi'  the  free 
feelings  o'  nature,  and  made  thereby  happy  and  contented,  wi' 
his  plaid  across  his  breast,  would  condescend  to  be  a  highway 
robber,  or  by  habit  and  repute  a  thief  ?  What  man,  whose 
heart  loupt  to  his  mouth  whenever  he  forgathered  wi'  his  ain 
lassie,  and  never  preed  her  bonny  mou'  but  wi'  a  whispered 
benediction  in  her  ear,  wad  at  ance  damn  and  demean  himsel 
by  breaking  the  seventh  commandment  ?  As  for  committing 
murder,  leave  that  to  the  like  o'  Thurtell  and  Probert,  and 
the  like,  wha  seem  to  have  had  nae  passions  o'  ony  kind  but 
a  passion  for  pork-chops  and  porter,  drivin  in  gigs,  wearm 
rough  big-coats  wi'  a  dizzen  necks,  and  cuffin  ane  anither's 
heads  wi'  boxin-gloves  on  their  neives, — but  nae  real  South- 
kintra  shepherd  ever  was  known  to  commit  murder,  for 
they're  ower  fond  o'  fechtin  at  fair,  and  kirns,  and  the  like, 
to  tak  the  trouble  o'  puttiii  ye  to  death  in  cool  blood — 

Tickler.  James,  would  you  seriously  have  North  to  write 
dramas  about  the  loves  of  the  lower  orders — men  in  corduroy 
breeches,  and  women  in  linsey-woollen  petticoats — 


160  Tickler  is  chastised. 

Shepherd.  Wha  are  ye,  sir,  to  speak  o'  the  lower  orders  ? 
Look  up  to  the  sky,  sir,  on  a  starry  nicht,  and  puir,  ignorant 
thochtless,  upsettin  cretur  you'll  be,  gin  you  dinna  feel,  far 
within  and  deep  doun  your  ain  sowl,  that  you  are,  in  good 
truth,  ane  o'  the  lower  orders — no  perhaps  o'  men,  but  o' 
intelligences  !  and  that  it  requires  some  dreadi'u'  mystery,  far 
beyond  your  comprehension,  to  mak  you  worthy  o'  ever  in 
after  life  becoming  a  dweller  among  those  celestial  mansions. 
Yet  think  ye,  sir,  that  thousan's  and  tens  o'  thousan's  o' 
millions,  since  the  time  when  first  God's  wrath  smote  the 
earth's  soil  with  the  curse  o' barrenness,  and  human  creatures 
had  to  earn  their  bread  wi'  sweat  and  dust,  haena  lived  and 
toiled,  and  laughed  and  sighed,  and  groaned  and  grat,  o'  the 
lower  orders,  that  are  noo  in  eternal  bliss,  and  shall  sit  above 
you  and  Mr.  North,  and  ithers  o'  the  best  o'  the  clan,  in  the 
realms  o'  heaven  ! 

Tickler.  'Pon  my  soul,  James,  I  said  nothing  to  justify  this 
tirade. 

Shepherd.  You  did,  though.  Hearken  till  me,  sir.  If  there 
be  no  agonies  that  wring  the  hearts  of  men  and  women  lowly 
born,  why  should  they  ever  read  the  Bible  ?  If  there  be  no 
heavy  griefs  makin  aftentimes  the  burden  o'  life  hard  to 
bear,  what  means  that  sweet  voice  callin  on  them  to  "  come 
unto  me,  for  I  will  give  them  rest  ?  "  If  love,  strong  as 
death,  adhere  not  to  yon  auld  widow's  heart,  while  sairly 
bowed  down,  till  her  dim  een  canna  see  the  lift  but  only 
the  grass  aneath  her  feet,  hoo  else  would  she  or  could  she 
totter  every  Sabbath  to  kirk,  and  wi'  her  broken,  feeble  and 
quiverin  voice,  and  withered  hands  clasped  together  on  her 
breast,  join,  a  happy  and  a  hopef  u'  thing,  in  the  holy  Psalm  ? 
If— 

Tickler.  James,  you  affect  me,  but  less  by  the  pictures 
you  draw,  than  by  the  suspicion  —  nay,  more  than  the 


A  Hero  in  Corduroys.  161 

suspicion  —  you  intimate  that  I  am  insensible  to  these 
things — 

Shepherd.  I  refer  to  you,  Mr.  North,  if  he  didna  mean,  by 
what  he  said  about  corduroy  breeks  and  linsey-woolleu 
petticoats,  to  throw  ridicule  on  all  that  wore  them,  and  to 
assert  that  nae  men  o'  genius,  like  you  or  me,  ought  to 
regard  them  as  worthy  o'  being  charactereezed  in  prose  or 
rhyme  ? 

North.  My  dear  James,  you  have  put  the  argument  on 
an  immovable  basis.  Poor,  lonely,  humble  people,  who  live 
in  shielings,  and  huts,  and  cottages,  and  farmhouses,  have 
souls  worthy  of  being  saved,  and  therefore  not  unworthy  of 
being  written  about  by  such  authors  as  have  also  souls 
to  be  saved ;  among  whom  you  and  I,  and  Tickler  him 
self— 

Shepherd.  Yes,  yes — Tickler  himself,  sure  aneuch.  Gie's 
your  haun,  Mr.  Tickler,  gie's  your  haun — we're  baith  in  the 
right ;  for  I  agree  wi'  you,  that  nae  hero  o'  tragedy  or  a 
Yepic  should  be  brought  forrit  ostentatiously  in  corduroy 
breeks,  and  that,  I  suppose,  is  a'  you  intended  to  say  ? 

Tickler.  It  is,  indeed,  James  ;  I  meant  to  say  no  more. 

Shepherd.  Surely,  Mr.  North,  you'll  no  allow  anither  spring 
to  gang  by  without  comin  out  to  the  fishing?  I  dinna  under- 
staun'  your  aye  gaun  up  to  the  Cruick-Inn  in  Tweedsmuir. 
The  Yarrow  Trouts  are  far  better  eatin — and  they  mak  far 
better  sport,  too — loupin  out  the  linns  in  somersets  like 
tumblers  frae  a  spring-brod ,  head-ower-heels, — and  gin  your 
pirn  doesna  rin  free,  snappin  aff  your  tackle,  and  doun  wi'  a 
plunge  four  fathom  deep  i'  the  pool,  or  awa  like  the  shadow 
o'  a  hawk's  wing  alang  the  shallows. 

North.  Would  you  believe  it,  my  dear  Shepherd,  that  my 
piscatory  passions  are  almost  dead  within  me  ;  and  I  like  now 
to  saunter  along  the  banks  a*nd  braes,  eyeing  the  younkers 


162  A  Bloody-minded  Angler. 

angling,  or  to  lay  me  clown  on  some  sunny  spot,  and  with  my 
face  up  to  heaven,  watch  the  slow-changing  clouds ! 

Shepherd.  I'll  no  believe  that,  sir,till  I  see't — and  scarcely 
then — for  a  bluidier-minded  fisher  nor  Christopher  North 
never  threw  a  hackle.  Your  creel  fu', — your  shootin-bag  fu' 
— your  jacket-pouches  fu',  the  pouches  o'  your  verra 
breeks  fu', — half-a-dozen  wee  anes  in  your  waistcoat,  no 
to  forget  them  in  the  croon  o'  your  hat, — and,  last  o'  a,'  when 
there's  nae  place  to  stow  awa  ony  mair  o'  them,  a  willow- 
wand  drawn  through  the  gills  of  some  great  big  anes,  like 
them  ither  folk  would  grup  wi'  the  worm  or  the  mennon — 
but  a'  gruppit  wi'  the  flee — Phin's  *  delight,  as  you  ca't, — a 
killin  inseck, — and  on  gut  that's  no  easily  broken, — witness 
yon  four-pounder  aneath  Elibank  wood,  where  your  line,  sir, 
got  entangled  wi'  the  auld  oak-root,  and  yet  at  last  ye  landed 
him  on  the  bank,  wi'  a'  his  crosses  and  his  stars  glitterin  like 
gold  and  silver  amang  the  gravel !  I  confess,  sir,  you're  the 
king  o'  anglers.  But  dinna  tell  me  that  you  have  lost  your 
passion  for  the  art ;  for  we  never  lose  our  passion  for  ony 
pastime  at  which  we  continue  to  excel. 

Tickler.  Now  that  you  two  have  begun  upon  angling,  I 
shall  ring  the  bell  for  my  nightcap. 

Shepherd.  What !  do  you  sleep  wi'  a  nichtcap  ? 

Tickler.  Yes,  I  do,  James — and  also  with  a  nightshirt — 
extraordinary  as  such  conduct  may  appear  to  some  people.  I 
am  a  singular  character,  James,  and  do  many  odd  things, 
which,  if  known  to  the  public,  would  make  the  old  lady  turn 
up  the  whites  of  her  eyes  in  astonishment. 

Shepherd.  Howsomever  that  be,  sir,  dinna  ring  for  a  nicht 
cap,  for  we're  no  gaun  to  talk  ony  mair  about  angling  !  We 
baith  hae  our  weakness,  Mr.  North  and  me  ; — but  there's 

*  Phin  was  an  approved  artificer  of  fishing  tackle.    The  shop  still  exists, 
and  sustains  its  ancient  reputation. 


Ambrose  and  the    Oysters.  163 

Mr.  Awmrose —  (Enter  Mr.  AMBROSE). — Bring  supper,  Mr. 
Awmrose — verra  weel,  sir,  I  thank  ye — hoo  hae  you  been 
yoursel,  and  hoo's  a'  wi'  the  wife  and  weans  ?  Whenever 
you  like,  sir;  the  sooner  the  better.  [Exit  Mr.  AMBROSE. 

Tickler.  No  yawning,  James, — a  barn-door's  a  joke  to  such 
jaws. 

North.  Give  us  a  song,  my  dear  Shepherd — "  Paddy  o' 
Rafferty,"  or  "  Low  doun  i'  the  Broom,"  or  "  O  Jeanie, 
there's  naething  to  fear  ye,"  or  "  Love's  like  a  dizziness," 
or  "  Rule  Britannia,"  or  "  Aiken  Drum,"  or — 

Tickler.  Beethoven,  they  say,  is  starving  in  his  native 
country,  and  the  Philharmonic  Society  of  London,  or  some 
other  association  with  music  in  their  souls,  have  sent  him  a 
hundred  pounds  to  keep  him  alive — he  is  deaf,  destitute,  and 
a  paralytic. — Alas  !  alas  ! 

Shepherd.  Whisht !  I  hear  Mr.  Awmrose's  tread  in  the 
transe  ! — 

"  Hi8  verra  foot  has  music  in't 
As  he  comes  up  the  stair." 

(Enter  Mr.  AMBROSE  and  Assistants.) 

Hoo  mony  hunder  eisters  are  there  on  the  brod,  Mr.  Awm 
rose  ? — Oh !  ho  !  Three  brods  ! — One  for  each  o'  us  ! — A 
month  without  an  R  has  nae  richt  being  in  the  year.  Noo, 
gentlemen,  let  naebody  speak  to  me  for  the  neist  half-hour. 
Mr.  Awmrose,  we'll  ring  when  we  want  the  rizzers — and  the 
toasted  cheese — and  the  deevil'd  turkey. — Hae  the  kettle  on 
the  boil,  and  put  back  the  lang  haun  o'  the  clock,  for  I  fear 
this  is  Saturday  nicht,  and  nane  o'  us  are  folk  to  break  in  on 
the  Sabbath.  Help  Mr.  North  to  butter  and  bread, — and 
there,  sir,  there's  the  vinnekar  cruet.  Pepper  awa,  gents. 


XIII. 

IN  WHICH  TICKLER  SECURES  THE    CALF,  AND    THE 
SHEPHERD   THE  BON  ASS  US. 

SCENE  I. — Porch  of  Buchanan  Lodge.     Time, — Evening. 

Mrs.  GENTLE. — Miss  GENTLE. — SHEPHERD. — COLONEL 
CYRIL  THORNTON.* — TICKLER. 

Shepherd.  I  just  ca'  this  perfec'  Paradise.  Oh  !  Mem !  but 
that's  the  natest  knitting  ever  blessed  the  een  o'  man.  Is't 
for  a  veil  to  your  dochter's  bonny  face  ?  I'm  glad  it's  no 
ower  deep,  sae  that  it  winna  hide  it  a'thegither — for  sure 
amang  sic  a  party  o'  freens  as  this,  the  young  leddy'll  forgie 
me  for  saying  at  ance,  that  there's  no  a  mair  beautifu'  cretur 
in  a'  Scotland. 

Mrs.  Gentle.  See,Mr.  Hogg,  how  you  have  made  poor  Mary 
hang  down  her  head — but  you  Poets — 

Shepherd.  Breathe  and  hae  our  beings  in  love,  and  delight 
in  the  fair  and  innocent  things  o'  this  creation.  Forgie  me, 
Miss  Gentle,  for  bringing  the  blush  to  your  broo — like  sun 
light  on  snaw — for  I'm  but  a  simple  shepherd,  and  whiles 

*  Captain  Thomas  Hamilton,  an  early  contributor  to  Blackwood's  Maga 
zine,  and  author  of  the  admirable  novel,  The  Youth  and  Manhood  of  Cyril 
Thornton,  was  the  younger  brother  of  Sir  William  Hamilton,  Bart.,  Pro- 
fessor  of  Logic  and  Metaphysics  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  His  other 
works  are,  Alen  and  Manners  in  America,  and  Annals  of  the  Peninsular 
Campaigns.  He  died  at  Florence  in  1842. 
161 


The  Shepherd  and  the  Wasp.  165 

says  things  I   sudna   say,  out   o'  the    very   fulness    of    my 
heart. 

Mrs.  Gentle.  Mary,  fetch  my  smaller  shuttle  from  the  par 
lor — it  is  lying,  I  believe,  on  one  of  the  cushions  of  the 
yellow  sofa.  [Miss  GENTLE  retires. 

Shepherd.  Oh !  Mem !  that  my  ain  dochter  may  grow  up, 
under  the  blessirfg  o'  God,  sic  a  flower  !  I've  often  heard  tell 
o'  you  and  her — and  o'  Mr.  North's  freenship  o'  auld  for  her 
father — 

North.  Hallo,  James — there's  a  wasp  running  along  your 
shoulder  in  the  direction  of  your  ear ! 

Shepherd.  A  wasp — say  ye  ?  Whilk  shouther  ?  Ding't 
an0,  some  o'  ye.  Wull  nane  o'  ye  either  speak  or  stir  ?  Whilk 
shouther,  I  say  ?  Confoun'  ye,  Tickler — ye  great  heigh  ne'er 
doweel,  wunna  ye  say  whilk  shouther  ?  Is't  aff  ? 

Tickler.  Off  !  No,  James,  that  it  isn't.  How  it  is  pricking 
along,  like  an  armed  knight,  up  the  creases  of  your  neckcloth  ! 
Left  chin — Shepherd. 

Mrs.  Gentle.  Allow  me,  Mr.  Hogg,  to  remove  the  unwelcome 
visitor.  (Mrs.  GENTLE  rises  and  scares  the  wasp  with  her 
handkerchief. ) 

Shepherd.  That's  like  a  leddy,  as  you  are.  There's  nae 
kindness  like  kindness  frae  the  haun  o'  a  woman. 

Tickler.  He  was  within  an  inch  o'  your  ear,  Hogg,  and  had 
made  good  his  entrance,  but  for  the  entanglement  of  the 
dusty  whisker. 

Shepherd.  That's  no  a  word,  sir,  to  speak  afore  a  leddy.  It's 
coorse.  But  you're  wrang  again,  sir,  for  the  wasp  cudna  hae 
made  gude  his  entrance  by  that  avenue,  for  my  left  lug's 
stuffed  wi'  cotton. 

North.  How  happens  it,  my  dear  James,  that  on  coming  to 
town  you  are  never  without  a  cold  ?  That  country  will  kill 
you — we  shall  be  losing  you,  James,  some  day,  of  a  brairi-fevrer. 


166  The  Shepherd's  Wig. 

Shepherd.  A  verra  proper  death  for  a  poet.  But  it's  just 
your  ain  vile,  vapory,  thick,  dull,  yellow,  brown,  dead, 
drizzling,  damned  (beg  you  pardon,  Mem)  easterly  haur  o' 
Embro'  that  gies  me  the  rheumatics.  In  the  country  I  think 
naeihing  o'  daundering  awa  to  the  holms,  without  my  bannet, 
or  onything  around  my  chafts — even  though  it  sud  be  raining 
— and  the  weather  has  nae  ither  effec'  than  to  gar  my  hair 
grow. 

North.  You  must  have  been  daundering  about  a  good  deal 
lately,  then,  my  dear  James,  for  I  never  saw  you  with  such  a 
crop  of  hair  in  my  life. 

Shepherd.  It's  verra  weel  for  you  that's  bald  to  tauk  about 
a  crap  o'  hair.  But  the  mair  hair  a  man  has  on  his  head  the 
better,  as  lang's  it's  tousy — and  no  in  candle-wick  fashion. 
What  say  ye,  Corrnall  ?  for,  judging  frae  your  ain  pow,  you're 
o'  my  opinion. 

C.  Cyril  Thornton.  I  see,  Mr.  Hogg,  that  we  both  patronize 
Macassar. 

Shepherd.  What  ?  Macawser  ile  ?  Deevel  a  drap  o't  ever 
wat  my  weeg — nor  never  sail.  It's  stinkin  stuff — as  are  a'  the 
iles  and  gies  an  unwholesome  and  unnatural  greasy  glimmer 
to  ane's  hair,  just  like  sae  muckle  creesh. 

C.  Cyril  Thornton.  'Pon  my  honor,  my  dear  Mr.  Hogg,  I 
never  suspected  you  of  a  wig. 

Shepherd.  Hoots,  man,  I  was  metaphorical.  It's  a  weeg  o' 
nature's  weavin.  (Re-enter  Miss  GENTLE  with  a  small  ivory 
shuttle  in  her  hand.}  Come  awa — come  awa,  Mem — here's 
an  empty  seat  near  me.  (Miss  GENTLE  sits  down  beside  the 
SHEPHERD.)  And  I'll  noo  praise  your  beauty  ony  mair,  for  I 
ken  that  maidens  dinna  like  blushing,  bonny  as  it  makes 
them  ;  but  dinna  think  it  was  ony  flattery — for  gif  it  was  the 
last  word  I  was  ever  to  speak  in  this  warld,  it  was  God's 
truth,  but  no  the  half  o'  the  truth  ;  and  when  ye  gaed  ben 


Cyril  Thornton.  167 

the  house,  I  cudna  help  saying  to  your  Leddy  Mother,  hoc 
happy  and  mair  than  happy  would  I  be  had  I  sic  a  dochter. 
(Enter  PETER.)  Peter,  my  braw  man,  Mr.  North  is  ordering 
you  to  bring  but  *  a  bottle  o'  primrose  wine.  (Exit  PETER.) 
Wae's  me,  Mr.  North,  but  I  think  Peter's  lookin  auld-like. 

North.  Like  master  like  man. 

C.  Cyril  Thornton.  Nay,  nay,  sir — I  see  little  or  no  change 
on  you  since  I  sold  out,  and  that,  as  you  know,  was  the  year 
in  which  the  Allied  armies  were  in  Paris. 

Shepherd.  Weel — I  declare,  Corrnall,  that  I'm  glad  to  hear 
your  voice  again — for,  as  far  as  I  ken  you  on  ower  short  an 
acquaintance,  I  wush  it  had  heen  langer — but  plenty  o'  life 
let  us  houp,  is  yet  afore  us.  You  hae  but  only  ae  faut — and 
that's  no  a  common  ane — you  dinna  speak  half  aneuch  as 
muckle's  your  freens  could  desire.  Half  aneuch,  did  I  say — 
na,  no  a  fourth  pairt — but  put  a  pen  intil  your  haun,  and 
you  ding  the  best  o'  us.  Oh !  man  !  but  your  Memoirs  o' 
your  Youth  and  Manhood's  maist  interestin.  I'm  no  speakin 
as  a  critic,  and  hate  phrasin  onybody — but  you's  no  a  whit 
inferior,  as  a  whole,  to  my  aiu  "  Perils." 

C.  Cyril  Thornton.  Allow  me  to  assure  you,  Mr.  Hogg,  that 
I  am  fully  sensible  both  of  the  value  and  the  delicacy  of  the 
compliment.  Many  faults  in  style  and  composition  your 
practised  and  gifted  eye  could  not  fail  to  detect,  or  I  ought 
rather,  in  all  humility  to  say,  many  such  faults  must  have 
forced  themselves  upon  it  ;  but  I  know  well,  at  the  same 
time,  that  the  genius  which  delights  the  whole  world  by  its 
own  creations  is  ever  indulgent  to  the  crudities  of  an  ordinary 
mind,  inheriting  but  feeble  powers  from  nature,  and  those,  as 
you  know,  little  indebted  to  art,  during  an  active  life  that 
afforded  but  too  few  opportunities  for  their  cultivation. 

Shepherd.  Feeble  poo'rs !  Ma  faith,  Corrnall,  there's  nae 

*  Bring  but  is  bring  out,  as  bring  ben  is  bring  in. 


168  Cyril  Thornton. 

symptoms  o'  feeble  poo'rs  yonner — you're  a  strong-thinking^ 
strong-feeling,  strong-writing,  strong-actin,  and  let  me  add, 
notwithstanding  the  want  o'  that  airm  that's  missin,  strong- 
looking  man  as  is  in  a'  his  Majesty's  dominions — either  in  the 
ceevil  or  military  depairtment — and  the  cleverest  fallow  in  a' 
Britain  micht  be  proud  to  father  yon  three  volumes.  Phrasin's 
no  my  faut — it  lies  rather  the  ither  way.  They're  just  perfeckly 
capital — and  what  I  never  saw  afore  in  a'  my  born  days,  and 
never  houp  to  see  again,  as  sure  as  ocht,*  the  thrid  volumm's 
the  best  o'  the  three, — the  story,  instead  o'  dwinin  awa  intil 
a  consumption,  as  is  the  case  wi'  maist  larig  stories  that  are 
seen  gaun  backwarts  and  forrits,  no  kennin  what  to  do  wi' 
themsels,  and  loosin  their  gate  as  sune  as  it  gets  dark — grows 
stouter  and  baulder,  and  mair  confident  in  itsel  as  it  proceeds 

"  Veerace  aqueerit  yeundo,"t 

till  at  last  it  soums  up  a'  its  haill  poo'rs  for  a  satisfactory 
catastrophe,  and  gangs  aff  victoriously  into  the  land  o'  Finis 
in  a  soun'  like  distant  thunner,  or  to  make  use  o'  a  martial 
simile,  sin'  I'm  speakin  to  a  sodger,  like  that  o'  a  discharge  o' 
the  great  guns  o'  artillery  roarin  thanks  to  the  welkin  for  twa 
great  simultawneous  victories  baith  by  sea  and  land,  on  ane 
and  the  same  day. 

North.  James,  allow  me,  in  the  name  of  Colonel  Thornton, 
to  return  you  his  very  best  thanks  for  your  speech. 

Shepherd.  Ay — ay — Mr.  North — my  man — ye  needna,  after 
that,  sir,  to  try  to  review  it  in  Blackwood;  or  gin  you  do,  hae 
the  grace  to  avow  that  I  gied  you  the  germ  o'  the  article,  and 
sen'  out  to  Altrive  in  a  letter  the  twenty  guineas  a  sheet. 

North.  It  shall  be  done,$  James. 

*  Ocht — aught,  anything.  t  Vires  acquirit  eundo. 

\  Cyril  Thornton  was  reviewed  by  Professor  Wilson  in  Blackwood's  Maga- 
tin«,No.  CXXVII. 


North  on  ns  that  he  is  a  Miser.  169 

Shepherd.  Or  rather  suppose — to  save  yourself  the  trouble 
D'  writin,  which  I  ken  you  detest,  and  me  the  postage — you 
just  tak  out  your  red-turkey  *  the  noo,  and  fling  me  ower  a 
twenty-pun'  Bank  post  bill — and  for  the  sake  o'  auld  lang 
syne,  you  may  keep  the  shillins  to  yoursel.  ,. 

North.  The  evening  is  beginning  to  get  rather  cold — and  I 
feel  the  air,  from  the  draught  of  that  door,  in  that  painful 
crick  of  my  neck — 

Shepherd.  That's  a'  a  flam.  Ye  hae  nae  crick  o'  your 
neck.  Oh,  sir,-  you're  growin  unco  hard — just  a  verra  Joseph 
Hume.  Speak  o'  siller,  that's  to  say  o'  the  payin  o't  awa, 
and  you're  as  deaf 's  a  nit ;  but  be  there  but  a  whusper  o' 
payin't  intil  your  haun,  and  you're  as  gleg  o'  hearin  as  a 
mowdiewarp.f  Isna  that  true? 

North.  Too  true,  James — I  feel  that  I  am  the  victim  of  a 
disease — and  of  a  disease,  too,  my  Shepherd,  that  can  only 
be  cured  by  death — old  age — we  septuagenarians  are  all 
misers. 

Shepherd.  Oh,  struggle  against  it,  sir  !  As  you  love  me — 
struggle  against  it !  Dinna  let  your  imagination  settle  on 
the  stocks.  Pass  the  faldin-doors  o'  the  Royal  Bank  wi' 
your  een  shut — sayin  a  prayer. — Dear  me  !— dear  me  !  what's 
the  maitter  wi'  Mrs.  Gentle?  Greetin,  I  declare,  and  wipin 
her  een  wi'  Mr.  North's  ain  Bandana ! — What  for  are  ye 
greetin,  Mrs.  Gentle  ?  Hae  ye  gotten  a  sudden  pain  in  your 
head  ?  If  sae,  ye  had  better  gang  up-stairs,  and  lie  doun. 

Mrs.  Gentle  (in  tears,  and  with  a  faint  sob).  Mr.  Hogg — 
you  know  not  that  man's — that  noble — generous — glorious 
man's  heart.  But  for  him,  what,  where,  how  might  I  now 
have  been — and  my  poor  orphan  daughter  there  at  your 
side  ?  Orphan  I  may  well  call  her — for  when  her  brave 
father,  the  General,  fell — 

*  Pocket-book.  t  Mowdieroarp— mole. 


170  Mrs.    G-entles  Agitation. 

Shepherd.  There's  nae  punishment  ower  severe  to  inflick  on 
me,  Mem.  But  may  I  never  stir  aff  this  firm,*  if  I  wasna 
a' in  jeest ; — but  there's  naething  mair  dangerous  than  ill- 
timed  daffin — I  weel  ken  that — and  this  is  no  the  first  time 
I  hae  wounded  folks'  feelins  wi'  nae  mair  thocht  or  intention 
o'  doin  sae  than — this  angel  at  my  side. 

Mrs.  Gentle  (Peter  entering  with  tea-tray).  Mr.  Hogg,  do 
you  prefer  black  or  green  tea  ? 

Shepherd.  Yes — yes — Mem — black  and  green  tea.  But 
I'm  taukin  nonsense.  Green — Mem — green — mak  it  strong 
—and  I'll  drink  five  cups,  that  I  may  lie  awauk  a'  nicht,  and 
repent  bringin  the  saut  tear  into  your  ee  by  my  waur  than 
stupid  nonsense  about  our  benefactor. 

Miss  Gentle.  Peter,  take  care  of  the  kettle. 

Shepherd.  You're  ower  kind,  Miss  Gentle,  to  bid  Peter 
tak  care  o'  the  kettle  on  my  account.  There's  my  legs 
stretched  out,  that  the  stroop  may  hiss  out  it's  boilin  het 
steam  on  my  shins,  by  way  o'  penance  for  my  sin.  I'll  no 
draw  a  worsted  thread  through  a  single  ane  o'  a'  the  blis 
ters.  .  .  .  But  it'll  make  us  a'  mair  than  happy — me,  and 
the  mistress,  and  the  weans,  and  a'  our  humble  household,  if 
Mrs.  Gentle,  you  and  your  dutifu'  dochter'll  come  out  to 
Yarrow  wi'  Mr.  North,  his  verra  first  visit.  Say,  Mem,  that 
you'll  do't.  Oh  !  promise  you'll  do't,  and  we'll  a'  be  happy 
as  the  twenty-second  o'  June  is  lang. 

Mrs.  Gentle.  I  promise  it,  Mr.  Hogg,  most  cheerfully. 
The  Peebles  Fly— 

Miss  Gentle.  My  mother  will  make  proper  arrangements, 
Mr.  Hogg,  in  good  time. 

Shepherd.  And  then,  indeed,  there  will  be  a  Gentle 
Shepherdess  in  Yarrow. 

North.  A  vile  pun. 

*  Firm— forrt,  bench. 


Tickler's  Gambols.  171 

Shepherd.  Pun  ?  Heaven  be  praised,  I  never  made  a  pun 
in  my  life.  It's  no  come  to  that  o't  wi'  me  yet.  A  man'* 
mind  must  be  sair  rookit  o'  thochts  before  he  begins  in  his 
dotage  to  play  upon  words.  But  then,  I  say,  there  will  be  a 
shepherdess  in  Yarrow  ;  and  the  author  o'  Lichts  and  Shad 
ows,*  who  imagines  every  red-kuted  f  hizzie  he  meets  to  be  a 
shepherdess — 

Miss  Gentle.  Pardon  me,  sir,  the  Lights  and  Shadows  are 
extremely  beau — 

Shepherd.  Nae  mair  sugar,  Mem,  in  ma  cup  ;  the  last  was 
rather  ower  sweet.  What  was  ye  gaun  to  say,  Miss  Gentle  ? 
But  nae  matter — it's  fixed  that  you're  comin  out  to  Altrive 
in  the  Peebles  Fly,  and — 

Miss  Gentle.  The  Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish  Life — 

Shepherd.  I  agree  with  you.  They  certainly  are.  Nobody 
admires  the  author's  genius  mair  than  I  do;  but — What 
the  dee"il's  become  o'  Mr.  Tickler  ?  I  never  missed  him  till 
this  moment. 

North.  Yonder  he  is,  James,  rolling  down  the  hill  all  his 
length  with  my  gardener's  children  !  happy  as  any  imp  among 
them — and  worrying  them  in  play,  like  an  old  tiger  acting 
the  amiable  and  paternal  with  his  cubs,  whom  at  another 
hour  he  would  not  care  to  devour. 

Shepherd.  Look  at  him  wi'  his  heels  up  i'  the  air,  just  like 
a  horse  rollin  i'  the  garse  on  bein'  let  out  o'  the  harnesh  !  I 
wush  he  mayna  murder  some  o'  the  weans  in  his  unwieldy 
gambols. 

North.  'Tis  the  veriest  great  boy,  Colonel  Thornton  !  Yet 
as  soon  as  he  has  got  rid  of  the  urchins,  you  will  see  him 
come  stalking  up  the  gravel  walk,  with  his  hands  behind 
his  back,  and  his  face  as  grave  as  a  monk's  in  a  cloister, 

*  The  Lights  and  Shadows  oj  Scottish  Life.    By  Professor  Wilson. 
t  Red-kuted— red-ankled. 


172  Tickler  and  the  Calf. 

till,  flinging  himself  into  a  chair,  with  a  long  sigh  he 
will  exclaim  against  the  vanities  of  this  weary  world,  and, 
like  the  melancholy  Jacques  himself,  moralize  on  that  calf 
yonder — which  by  the  way  has  pulled  up  the  peg,  and  set 
off  at  a  scamper  over  my  beds  of  tulips.  Mr.  Tickler — hallo 
— will  you  have  the  goodness,  now  that  you  are  on  your 
legs,  to  tell  the  children  to  look  after  that  young  son  of  a 
cow — 

Tickler  (running  up  out  of  breath).  He  has  quite  the  look 
of  a  Puma — see  how  he  handles  his  tail,  and  kicks  up  his 
heels  like  a  D'Egville.  Jem — Tommy — Bauldy,  my  boys, — 
the  calf — the  calf — the  hunt's  up — halloo,  my  lads — halloo  ! 

[Off they  all  set. 

Shepherd.  Faith,  I've  aneuch  o'  rinnin  after  calves  at 
hame.  Here  I'm  on  a  holiday,  and  I'll  sit  still.  What's  a 
Puma,  Mr.  North  ?  I  never  heard  tell  o'  a  beast  wi'  that 
name  before.  Is  it  outlandish  or  indigenous  ? 

[The  Calf  gallops  by  in  an  exhausted  state,  tail-on-end, — 
with  TICKLER,  and  JEM,  TOMMY,  and  BAULDY,  the 
gardener's  children,  in  full  cry. 

Shepherd.  I  canna  lauch  at  that — I  canna  lauch  at  that ; 
and  yet  I  dinna  ken  either — yonner's  Tickler  a'  his  length, 
haudin  fast  by  the  tail,  and  the  calf — it's  a  desperate  strong 
beast  for  sae  young  a  ane,  and  a  quey  *  too — harlin  him 
through  the  shrubbery.  Haw !  haw !  haw  !  haw ! — Oh, 
Corrnall !  but  I'm  surprised  no  to  hear  you  lauchin — for  my 
sides  is  like  to  split. 

C.  Cyril  Thornton.  It  is  a  somewhat  singular  part  of  my 
idiosyncrasy,  Mr.  Hogg,  that  I  never  feel  the  slightest  impulse 
to  laugh  aloud.  But  I  can  assure  you,  that  I  have  derived 
from  the  view-holla  the  most  intense  excitation  of  tho 
midriff.  I  never  was  more  amused  in  piy  life;  and  you 

*  Qitev — a  young  cow. 


The  Calf  is  captured.  173 

had,  within  my  very  soul,  a  silent  accompaniment  to  your 
guffaw. 

North.  These,  Cyril,  are  not  the  indolent  gardens  of  Epi 
curus.  You  see  we  indulge  occasionally  in  active,  even 
violent  exercises. 

C.  Cyril  Thornton.  There  is  true  wisdom,  Mr.  North,  in 
that  extraordinary  man's  mind.  It  has  given  me  much 
pleasure  to  think  that  Mr.  Tickler  should  have  remembered 
my  name — for  I  never  had  the  honor  of  being  in  his  company 
but  once — when  I  was  at  the  University  of  Glasgow,  in  the 
house  of  my  poor  old  grand-uncle,  Mr.  Spreull.*  Mr.  Tickler 
had  carried  some  important  mercantile  case  through  your 
law-courts  here  for  Mr.  Spreull,  and  greatly  gratified  the  old 
gentleman  by  coming  west  without  ceremony  to  take  pot- 
luck.  It  was  with  no  little  difficulty  that  we  got  through 
dinner,  for  I  remember  Girzy  was  so  utterly  confounded  by 
his  tout-ensemble,  his  stature,  his  tie — for  he  sported  one  in 
those  days — :his  gestures,  his  gesticulations,  his  jokes,  his 
waggery,  and  his  wit,  all  of  a  kind  new  to  the  West,  that  she 
stood  for  many  minutes  with  the  tureen  of  hotch-potch  sup 
ported  against  her  breast,  and  all  her  grey  goggles  fascinated 
as  by  a  serpent,  till  poor  old  Mr.  Spreull  cursed  her  in  his 
sternest  style  to  set  it  down  on  the  table,  that  he  might  ask 
a  blessing. 

[TICKLER,  JEM,  TOMMY,  and  BAULDT  re-cross  the  front 

of  the  Porch   in  triumph  with  the  captive  Calf,  and 

disappear  in  the  rear  of  the  premises. 
Shepherd.  He'll  be  laid  up  for  a  week  noo,  on  account  o' 
this  afternoon's  stravagin  without  his  hat,  and  a'  this  rowin 
ower  braes  wi'  weans,  and  a'  this  gallopin  and  calf-huntin. 
He'll  be  a'  black  and  blue  the  morn's  morning,  and  sae  stiff 
that  he'll  no  be  able  to  rise. 

*  One  of  the  characters  in  Cyril  Thornton. 


174  The  Ladies  retire. 

Mrs.  Gentle.  Mary,  we  must  bid  Mr.  North  and  his  friends 
good-night.  You  know  we  are  engaged  at  ten  — 

"  A  nd  yon  bright  star  has  risen  to  warn  us  home." 

North.  Farewell. 

Shepherd.  Faur  ye  weel,  faur  ye  weel — God  bless  you 
baith — faur  ye  weel — noo  be  sure  no  to  forget  your  promise 
to  bring  Miss  Mary  out  wi'  ye  to  Ettrick. 

Miss  Gentle  (smiling).  In  the  Peebles  Fly. 

Shepherd.  Na,  your  father,  as  ye  ca'd  him,  when  ye  gied 
his  auld  wrinkled  forehead  a  kiss,  '11  bring  you  to  the  Forest 
in  his  ain  cotch-and-four.  Faur  ye  weel — God  bless  you 
baith — faur  ye  weel. 

C.  Cyril  Thornton.  Ladies,  I  wish  you  good  evening. 
Mrs.  Gentle,  the  dews  are  falling  ;  allow  me  to  throw  my 
fur  cloak  over  you  and  Miss  Gentle ;  it  is  an  ancient  affair, 
but  of  the  true  Merino. — You  flatter  me  by  accepting  it. 

[  Covers    Mother  and  Daughter  with  his  military  cloak, 
and  they  vanish. 

North.  Now,  James,  a  single  jug  of  toddy. 

Shepherd,  What!  each? 

North.  Each.  There  comes  Tickler,  as  grave's  a  judge— 
make  no  allusion  to  the  chase.  (TICKLER  rejoins  the  party.) 
But  it  is  chilly,  so  let  us  go  into  the  parlor.  I  see  Peter  has 
had  the  sense  to  light  the  candles — and  there  he  goes  with  a 
pan  of  charcoal. 

SCENE  II.—  The  Pitt  Parlor. 

Tickler.  I  fear,  Colonel,  since  you  lost  your  arm,  that  you 
are  no  longer  a  sportsman. 

C.  Cyril  Thornton.  I  have  given  up  shooting,  although 
Joe  Manton  constructed  a  light  piece  for  me,  with  which  I 
generally  contrived  to  hit  and  miss  time  about ;  but  I  am  a 


North  in  Loch  Awe.  175 

devout  disciple  of  IzaaE,  and  was  grievously  disappointed  ou 
my  arrival  t'other  day  in  Kelso,  to  find  another  occupier  in 
Walton-hall ;  but  my  friend,  Mr.  Alexander  Ballantyne,  and 
I,  proceed  to  Peebles  on  the  1st  of  June,  to  decide  our  bet 
of  a  rump  and  dozen,  he  with  the  spinning  minnow,  and  I 
with  Phin's  delight. 

O 

Shepherd.  Watty  Ritchie'll  beat  you  baith  with  the  May- 
nee,  if  it  be  on,  or  ony  length  aneath  the  stanes. 

North.  You  will  be  all  sorry  to  hear  that  our  worthy 
friend  Watty  is  laid  up  with  a  bad  rheumatism,  and  can  no 
longer  fish  the  Megget  Water  and  the  lochs,  and  return  to 
Peebles  in  the  same  day. 

Shepherd.  That's  what  a'  your  waders  come  to  at  last. 
Had  it  no  been,  Mr.  North,  for  your  plowterin  in  a'  the  rivers 
and  lochs  o'  Scotland,  baith  saut  water  and  fresh,  like  a 
Newfoundland  dog,  or  rather  a  seal  or  an  otter,  you  needna, 
had  that  crutch  aneath  your  oxter.  Corrnall  Cyril,  saw  ye 
him  ever  a  fishin  ? 

C.  Cyril  Thornton.  Never  but  once,  for  want  of  better 
ground,  in  the  Crinan  Canal,  out  of  a  coal-barge,  for  braises 
when  I  was  a  red-gowned  student  at  Glasgow. 

Shepherd.  Oh !  but  you  should  hae  seen  him  in  Loch 
Owe,  or  the  Spey.  In  he  used  to  gang,  out,  out,  and  ever 
sae  far  out  frae  the  pint  o'  a  promontory,  sinkin  aye  furder 
and  furder  doun,  first  to  the  waistband  o'  his  breeks,  then  up 
to  the  middle  button  o'  his  waistcoat,  then  to  the  verra 
breast,  then  to  the  oxters,  then  to  the  neck,  and  then  to  the 
verra  chin  o'  him,  sae  that  you  wonnered  how  he  could  fling 
the  flee,  till  last  o'  a'  he  would  plump  richt  out  o'  sicht,  till 
the  Highlander  on  Ben  Cruachan  thocht  him  drooned  ;  but 
he  wasna  born  to  be  drooned — no  he,  indeed — &ie  he  taks  to 
the^oomin,  and  strikes  awa  wi'  ae  arm,  like  yoursel,  sir — for 
the  tither  had  haud  o'  the  rod — and,  could  ye  believe't, 


176  Tlie  Shepherd  punished. 

though  it's  as  true  as  Scriptur,  fishin'g  a'  the  time,  that  no  a 
moment  o'  the  cloudy  day  micht  be  lost ;  ettles  at  an  island 
a  quarter  o'  a  mile  aff,  wi'  trees,  and  an  old  ruin  o'  a  religious 
house,  wherein  beads  used  to  be  coonted,  and  wafers  eaten, 
and  mass  muttered  hundreds  o'  years  ago ;  and  gettin  footin 
on  the  yellow  sand  or  the  green  sward,  he  but  gies  himsel  a 
shake,  and  ere  the  sun  looks  out  o'  the  clud,  has  hyucket  a 
four-pounder,  whom  in  four  minutes  (for  it's  a  multiplying 
pirn  the  cretur  uses)  he  lands  gasping  through  the  giant  gills, 
and  glitterin  wi'  a  thousan'  spots,  streaks,  and  stars,  on  the 
shore.  That's  a  pictur  o'  North's  fishing  in  days  o'  yore.* 
But  look  at  him  noo — only  look  at  him  noo — wi'  that  auld- 
f arrant  face  o'  his,  no  unlike  a  pike's,  crunkled  up  in  his 
chair,  his  chin  no  that  unwullin  to  tak  a  rest  on  his  collar- 
bane — the  hauns  o'  him  a'  covered  wi'  chalk-stanes — his  legs 
like  winnle-straes — and  his  knees  but  knobs,  sae  that  he 
canna  cross  the  room,  far  less  soom  ower  Loch  Owe,  without 
a  crutch ;  and  wunna  you  join  wi'  me,  Corrnall  Cyril,  in 
hauding  up  baith  your  hauns — I  aux  your  pardon,  in  hauding 
up  your  richt  haun — and  compairing  the  past  wi'  the  pres 
ent,  exclaim,  amaist  sobbin,  and  in  tears,  "  Vanity  o'  vani 
ties  !  all  is  vanity  !  " 

North  (suddenly  hitting  the  Shepherd  over  the  sconce  with 
his  crutch).  Take  that,  blasphemer! 

Shepherd  (clawing  his  pow).  "  Man  of  age,  thou  smitest 
sore ! " 

C.  Cyril  Thornton.  Mr.  Hogg,  North  excels  at  the  crutch- 
exercise. 

Shepherd.  Put  your  finger,  Corrnall,  on  here— did  you 
ever  fin'  sic  a  big  clour  risen  in  sae  wee  a  time  ? 

*  Professor  Wilson's  mode  of  angling  In  his  younger  days  is  here  painted 
to  the  life.  Even  so  late  as  1849  he  was  in  the  habit  of  wading  up  to  the  loini 
In  the  practice  of  his  favorite  pastime. 


Brontes  Ancestry.  177 

C.  Cyril  Thornton.  Never.  Mr.  North  with  his  crutch,  had 
he  lived  in  the  Sylvan  Age  of  Robbery,  would  have  been  a 
match  for  the  best  of  the  merry  Outlaws  of  Sherwood.  Little 
John  would  have  sung  small,  and  Robin  Hood  fancied  him 
no  more  than  he  did  the  Finder  of  Wakefield. 

Shepherd.  That's  what's  ca'd  at  Buchanan  Lodge  cracking 
a  practical  joke,  Corrnall.  I  maun  get  Peter  to  bring  me 
some  brown  paper  steep'd  in  vinegar,  or  the  clour'll  be  like 
a  horn.  I  scarcely  think,  even  already,  that  my  hat  would 
stay  on.  Oh,  sir,  but  you're  desperate  cruel. 

North.  Not  I,  my  dear  James.  I  knew  I  had  a  man  to 
deal  with  :  the  tenth  part  of  such  a  touch  would  have  killed 
a  Cockney. 

Shepherd.  What  a  bow-wowing's  that,  thinks  ony  o'  you 
out-by  ? 

North.  Bronte  baying  at  some  blackguards  on  the  outer 
side  of  the  gate. 

Shepherd.  Oh !  sir,  I've  heard  tell  o'  your  new  Newfound 
land  dowg,  and  would  like  to  see  him.  May  I  ring  for 
Peter  to  lowse  him  frae  his  cheen,  and  bring  him  ben  for 
me  to  look  at  ?  (Rings  the  bell—  PETER  receives  his  instruc 
tions.) 

North.  Bronte's  mother,  James,  is  a  respectable  female 
who  now  lives  in  Claremont  Crescent ;  his  father,  who  served 
his  time  in  the  navy,  and  was  on  board  Admiral  Otway's 
ship  when  he  hoisted  his  flag  in  her  on  the  Leith  station, 
is  now  resident,  I  believe,  at  Portobello.  The  couple  have 
never  had  any  serious  quarrel ;  but  for  reasons  best  known 
to  themselves,  choose  to  live  apart.  Bronte  is  at  present 
the  last  of  all  his  race — the  heir-apparent  of  his  parents'  virtues 
— his  four  brothers  and  three  sisters  having  all  unfortunately 
perished  at  sea. 

Shepherd.  Did  ye  ever  see  onything  grow  sae  fast  as  a 
Newfoundland  whalp  ?  There's  a  manifest  difference  on  them 


178  Bronte  enters. 

between  breakfast  and  denner,  and  denner  and  sooper  ;  and 
they  keep  growin  a'  nicht  lang. 

North.  Bronte  promises  to  stand  three  feet  without  his 
shoes — 

Shepherd.  I  hear  him  comin — yowf-yowffin  as  he  spangs 

along.    I  wush  he  mayna  coup  that  weak-ham'd  bodie,  Peter. 

[Door  opens,  and  BRONTE*  bounces  in. 

O.  Cyril  Thornton.  A  noble  animal,  indeed,  and  the  very 
image  of  a  dog  that  saved  a  drummer  of  ours,  who  chose 
to  hop  overboard,  through  fear  of  a  flogging  in  the  Bay  of 
Biscay. 

North.  What  do  you  think  of  him,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Think  o'  him  ?  I  canna  think  o'  him — it's 
aneuch  to  see  him — what'n  a  sagacious  countenance  !  Look 
at  him  lauchin  as  he  observes  the  empty  punch-bowl.  His 
back's  preceesely  on  a  line  wi'  the  edge  o'  the  table.  And 
oh !  but  he's  bonnily  marked — a  white  ring  roun'  the  neck  o' 
him,  a  white  breast,  white  paws,  a  white  tip  o'  the  tail,  and  a' 
the  rest  black  as  nicht.  O  man,  but  you're  towsy !  His 
legs,  Mr.  North,  canna  be  thinner  than  my  airm,  and  what 
houghs,  hips,  and  theeghs  !  I'm  leanin  a'  ray  haill  waght 
upon  his  back,  and  his  spine  bends  nae  mair  than  about  the 
same  as  Captain  Brown's  chain-pier  at  Newhaven  when  a 
hundred  folk  are  walking  alang't  to  gang  on  board  the 
steamboat.  His  neck,  too,  's  like  a  bill's — if  he  was  turnin 
o'  a  sudden  at  speed,  a  whap  o'  his  tail  would  break  a  man's 
leg.  Fecht !  I'se  warrant  him  fecht,  either  wi'  ane  o'  his 
ain  specie,  or  wi'  cattle  wi'  cloven  feet,  or  wi'  the  lions 
Nero  or  Wallace  o'  Wummell's  Menagerie,  or  wi'  the  Lord  o' 
Creation,  Man — by  himsel  Man  !  How  he  would  rug  them 
down — dowgs,  or  soos,  or  stirks,  or  lions,  or  rubbers  !  He 

*Bronte  was  a  real  character.    His  life  and  death  are  afterwards  commeraor. 


Bronte  s  Education.  179 

could  kill  a  man,  I  verily  believe,  without  ever  bitin  him— 
just  by  dounin  him  wi'  the  waght  o'  his  body  and  his  paws, 
and  then  lying  on  the  tap  o'  him,  growlin  to  throttle  and 
devour  him  if  he  mudged.  He  would  do  grandly  for  the 
Monks  o'  St  Bernard  to  save  travellers  frae  the  snaw. 
Edwin  Landseer  maun  come  down  to  Scotland  for  anes 
errand,  just  to  pent  his  pictur,  that  future  ages  may  ken 
that  in  the  reign  o'  George  the  Fourth,  and  durin  the  Queer 
Whig-and-Tory  Administration,  there  was  such  a  dowg. 

North.  I  knew,  James,  that  he  was  a  dog  after  your  own 
heart. 

Shepherd.  Oh,  sir !  dinna  let  onybody  teach  him  tricks— 
sic  as  runnin  back  for  a  glove,  or  standin  on  his  hurdies,  or 
loupin  out-ower  a  stick,  or  snappin  bread  frae  aff  his  nose,  or 
ringin  the  bell,  or  pickin  out  the  letters  o'  the  alphabet,  like 
ane  o'  the  working  classes  at  a  Mechanic  Institution, — leave 
a'  tricks  o'  that  sort  to  Spaniels,  and  Poodles,  and  Puggies  (I 
mean  nae  reflection  on  the  Peebles  Puggie  withouten  the 
tail,  nor  yet  Mr.  Thomas  Grieve's  Peero),  but  respec'  the 
soul  that  rnaun  be  in  that  noble,  that  glorious  frame  ;  and  if 
you  maun  chain  him,  let  him  understand  that  sic  restraint  is 
no  incompawtible  wi'  liberty ;  and  as  for  his  kennel,  I  would 
hae  it  sclated,  and  a  porch  ower  the  door,  even  a  miniature 
imitation  o'  the  porch  o'  Buchanan  Lodge. 

North.  James,  we  shall  bring  him  with  us — along  with  the 
Gentles — to  Altrive. 

Shepherd.  Proud  wad  I  be  to  see  him  there,  sir,  and  gran' 
soomin  wad  he  get  in  St.  Mary's  Loch,  and  the  Loch  o'  the 
Lowes,  and  Loch  Skene.  But — there's  just  ae  objection— 
ae  objection — sir — I  dinna  see  how  I  can  get  ower't. 

North.  The  children,  James  ?  Why,  he  is  as  gentle  as  a 
uew-dropt  lamb. 


180  The  Bonassus. 

Shepherd.  Na,  na — it's  no  the  weans — for  Jamie  and  hia 
sisters  would  ride  on  his  back — he  could  easy  carry  threeple 
— to  Yarrow  Kirk  on  the  Sabbaths.  But — but  he  would 
fecht  with — The  Bonassus. 

North.  The  Bonassus  !     What  mean  ye,  Shepherd  ? 

Shepherd.  I  bocht  the  Bonassus  frae  the  man  that  had  him 
in  a  show  ;  and  Bronte  and  him  would  be  for  fechtin  a  duel, 
and  baith  o'  them  would  be  murdered,  for  neither  Bronte  nor 
the  Bonassus  would  say  "  Hold,  enough." 

North.  Of  all  the  extraordinary  freaks,  my  dear  bard,  that 
ever  your  poetical  imagination  was  guilty  of,  next  to  writing 
the  Perils  of  Woma?i,  your  purchase  of  the  Bonassus  seems 
to  me  the  most  miraculous. 

Shepherd.  I  wanted  to  get  a  breed  aff  him  wi'  a  maist 
extraordinar  cow,  that's  half-blood  to  the  loch-and-river  kine 
by  the  bill's  side — and  [  have  nae  doubt  but  that  they  wull 
be  gran'  milkers,  and  if  fattened,  will  rin  fifty  score  a  quarter. 
But  Bronte  mauna  come  out  to  Altrive,  sir,  till  the  Bonassus 
is  dead. 

North.  But  is  the  monster  manageable,  James  ?  Is  there 
no  danger  of  his  rebelling  against  his  master  ?  Then, 
suppose  he  were  to  break  through,  or  bound  over  the  stone 
wall  and  attack  me,  as  I  kept  hobbling  about  the  green  braes, 
my  doom  would  be  sealed.  I  have  stood  many  a  tussle  in 
my  day,  as  you  know  and  have  heard,  James  ;  but  I  am  not, 
now,  single-handed,  a  match  for  the  Bonassus. 

Shepherd.  The  stane- wa's  about  my  farm  are  rather  rickly  ; 
but  he  never  tries  to  break  them  doun  as  lang's  the  kye's  wi' 
him, — nor  do  I  think  he  has  ony  notion  o'  his  ain  strength. 
It's  just  as  weel,  for  wi'  yon  head  and  shouthers  he  could 
ding  doun  a  house. 

O.  Cyril  Thornton.  How  the  deuce,  Mr  Hogg,  did  you  get 


The  Bonassus.  181 

him  from  Edinburgh  to  Altrive  ?     To  look  at  him,  he  seemed 
an  animal  that  would  neither  lead  nor  drive. 

Shepherd.  I  bought  him,  sir,  at  Selkirk,  waggon  and  a', 
and  druv  him  hame  mysel.  The  late  owner  tauked  big 
aboot  his  fury  and  fairceness — and  aiblins  he  was  fairce  in 
his  keepin,  as  weel  he  micht  be,  fed  on  twa  bushels  o'  ingans 
— unnions,  that  is — per  deeam — but  as  sune  as  I  had  him  at 
Mount  Benger,  T  backet  the  waggon  a  wee  doun  hill,  flang 
open  the  end  door,  and  out  like  a  debtor  frae  five  years' 
confinement  lap  the  Bonassus — 

Tickler.  Was  you  on  the  top  of  the  waggon,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  No — that  thocht  had  occurred  to  me — but  I  was 
munted, — and  the  powney's  verra  fleet,  showin  bluid, — and 
aff  I  set  at  the  gallop — 

Tickler.  With  the  Bonassus  after  you — 

Shepherd.  Whisht,  man,  whisht.  The  poor  beast  was 
scarcely  able  to  staun' !  He  had  forgotten  the  use  of  his 
legs  !  Sae  I  went  up  to  him,  on  futt,  withouten  fear,  and 
patted  him  a'  ower.  Sair  frights  some  o'  the  folk  frae 
Megget  Water  got,  on  first  comin  on  him  unawares — and  I'm 
telt  that  there's  a  bairn  ower-by  about  the  side  of  Moffat 
Water — it's  a  callant — whose  mither  swarfed  at  the  Bonas 
sus  when  she  was  near  the  doun-lying,  that  has  a  fearsome 
likeness  till  him  in  the  face  ;  but  noo  he's  weel  kent,  and, 
I  may  say,  liked  and  respeckit  through  a'  the  Forest,  as  a 
peaceable  and  industrious  member  o'  society. 

North.  I  dread,  my  dear  James,  that,  independent  of  the 
Bonassus,  it  will  not  be  possible  for  me  to  be  up  with  you 
before  autumn.  I  believe  that  I  must  make  a  trip  to  London 
im — 

Shepherd.  Ay,  ay, — the  truth's  out  noo.  The  rumor  in 
the  Forest  was,  that  you  had  been  sent  for  by  the  King  a 
month  sin'  syne,  but  wadna  gang — and  that  a  sheriff's  offi- 


182  A  Royal  Command. 

sher  had  been  despatched  in  a  chaise-and-four  frae  Lunnon, 
to  bring  you  up  by  the  cuff  o'  the  neck,  and  gin  you  made 
ony  resistance  at  the  Lodge,  to  present  his  pistol. 

North.  There  are  certain  secrets,  my  dearest  James,  the 
development  of  which,  perhaps,  lies  beyond  even  the  privi 
leges  of  friendship.  With  you  I  have  no  reserve — but  when 
Majesty — 

Shepherd.  Lays  its  command  on  a  loyal  subject,  you  was 
gaun  to  say,  he  maun  obey.  That's  no  my  doctrine.  It's 
slavish-like.  You  did  perfectly  richt,  sir ;  the  haill  Forest 
swore  you  did  perfectly  richt  in  refusin  to  stir  a  futt  frae 
your  ain  fireside,  in  a  free  kintra  like  the  auld  kingdom  o' 
Scotland.  Had  the  King  been  leevin  at  Holyrood,  it  micht 
hae  been  different ;  but  for  a  man  o'  your  years  to  be  harled 
through  the  snaw — 

North.  I  insist  that  this  sort  of  conversation,  sir,  stop — 
and  that  what  has  been  now  said — most  unwarranted^ 
remember,  James — go  no  farther.  Do  you  think,  my  dear 
Shepherd,  that  all  that  passes  within  the  penetralia  of  the 
Royal  breast  finds  an  echo  in  the  rumors  of  the  Forest  ? 
"  But  something  too  much  of  this." 

Shepherd.  Weel,  weel,  sir — weel,  weel.  But  dinna  look 
sae  desperate  angry.  I  canna  thole  to  see  a  frown  on  your 
face,  it  works  sic  a  dreadfu',  I  had  maist  said  deeabolical 
change  on  the  haill  expression  o'  the  faytures.  Oh,  smile 
sir  !  if  you  please — do,  Mr.  North,  sir,  my  dear  freen,  do  just 
gie  ae  bit  blink  o'  a  smile  at  the  corner  o'  your  ee  or  mouth 
— ay,  that'll  do,  Christopher — that'll  do.  Oh,  man,  Kit,  but 
you  was  fairce  the  noo  just  at  naething  ava,  as  folks 
generally  is  when  they  are  at  their  faircest,  for  then  their 
rampagin  passion  meets  wi'  nae  impediment,  and  keeps  feed, 
feed,  feedin  on  itself  and  its  ain  heart.  But  whisht — there's 
thunner ! 


Another  jug  ?  183 

Tickler.  Only  Mr.  Ambrose  with  the  coach  I  ordered  to  be 
at  the  Lodge  precisely  at  one. 

Shepherd.  I'm  sorry  she's  come.  For  I  was  just  beginnin 
to  summon  up  courage  to  hint  the  possibility,  if  no  the  pro 
priety,  o'  anither  bowl — or  at  least  a  jug. 

0.  Cyril  Thornton  (rising}.  God  bless  you,  sir,  good  morn 
ing — Mr.  Ambrose  may  call  it  but  one  o'clock,  if  it  gives  him 
any  pleasure  to  think  that  the  stream  of  time  may  run  counter 
to  the  moon  and  stars  ;  but  it  is  nearer  three,  and  I  trust  the 
lamps  are  not  lighted  needlessly  to  affront  the  dawn.  Once 
more — God  bless  you  sir.  Good  morning. 

North.  Thursday  at  six,  Cyril — farewell. 

[Enter  Mr.  AMBROSE  to  announce  the  coach. 

Shepherd.  Gude-by,  sir — dinna  get  up  aff  your  chair. 
(Aside)  Corrnall,  he  canna  rise.  The  coach  '11  drap  the 
Corrnall  at  Awmrose's  in  Picardy,  and  me  at  the  Peebles 
Arms,  sign  o'  the  Sawmon,  Candlemaker  Row, — and  Mr. 
Tickler  at  his  ain  house,  Southside — and  by  then  it'll  be 
about  time  for't  to  return  to  the  stance  in  George  Street. 

C.  Cyril  Thornton  (opening  the  window-shutters  at  a  nod  from 
North).  The  blaze  of  day, 

[  Coach  drives  from  the  Lodge,  ribbons  and  rod  in  the  hand 
o/*Mr.  AMBROSE. 


XIV. 

IN  WHICH  THE  SHEPHERD  AND  TICKLER   TAKE  TO 
THE  WATER, 

SCENE  I. —  Two  Bathing-machines   in  the   Seaat  PortobeUo.* 
SHEPHERD. — TICKLER. 

Shepherd.  Halloo,  Mr.  Tickler,  are  you  no  ready  yet,  man  ? 
I've  been  a  mother-naked  man.  in  my  machine  here,  for  mair 
than  ten  minutes.  Hae  your  pantaloons  got  entangled  amang 
your  heels,  or  are  you  saying  your  prayers  afore  you  plunge  ? 

Tickler.  Both.  These  patent  long  drawers,  too,  are  a  con 
founded  nuisance — and  this  patent  short  under-shirt.  There 
is  no  getting  out  of  them  without  greater  agility  than  is 
generally  possessed  by  a  man  at  my  time  of  life. 

Shepherd.  Confound  a'  pawtents.  As  for  mysel,  I  never 
wear  drawers,  but  hae  my  breeks  lined  wi'  flannen  a'  the  year 
through  ;  and  as  for  thae  wee  short  corded  under-shirts,  that 
clasp  you  like  ivy,  I  never  hae  had  ane  o'  them  on  sin'  List 
July,  when  I  was  forced  to  cut  it  aff  my  back  and  breast  wi' 
a  pair  o'  sheep-shears,  after  having  tried  in  vain  to  get  out  o't 
every  morning  for  twa  months.  But  are  ye  no  ready,  sir  ? 
A  man  on  the  scaffold  wadna  be  allowed  sae  lang  time  for 
preparation.  The  minister  or  the  hangman  wad  be  jugging  t 
him  to  fling  the  hankerchief. 

•  A  bathing  quarter  near  Edinburgh.  f  Jugging— jogging. 

184 


Tickler  on  the  Brink.  185 

Tickler.  Hanging,  I  hold,  is  a  mere  flea-bite — 

Shepherd.  What !  tae  dookin  ? — Here  goes. 

[The  SHEPHERD  plunges  into  the  sea. 

Tickler.  What  the  devil  has  become  of  James  ?  He  is 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  That  is  but  a  gull — that  only  a  seal — 
and  that  a  mere  pellock.  James,  James,  James ! 

Shepherd  (emerging.)  Wha's  that  roaring  ?  Stop  a  wee  till 
I  get  the  saut  water  out  o'  my  een,  and  my  mouth,  and  my  nose, 
and  wring  my  hair  a  bit.  Noo,  where  are  you,  Mr.  Tickler  ? 

Tickler.  I  think  I  shall  put  on  my  clothes  again,  James. 
The  air  is  chill ;  and  I  see  from  your  face  that  the  water  is 
as  cold  as  ice. 

Shepherd.  Oh,  man  !  but  you're  a  desperate  cooart  Think 
shame  o'  yoursel,  stannin  naked  there,  at  the  mouth  o*  the 
machine,  wi'  the  haill  crew  o'  yon  brig  sailin  up  the  Firth 
looking  at  ye,  ane  after  anither,  f rae  cyuck  to  captain,  through 
the  telescope. 

Tickler.  James,  on  the  sincerity  of  a  shepherd  and  the 
faith  of  a  Christian,  lay  your  hand  on  your  heart,  and  tell  me, 
was  not  the  shock  tremendous  ?  I  thought  you  never  would 
have  reappeared. 

Shepherd.  The  shock  was  naething,  nae  mair  than  what  a 
body  feels  when  waukenin  suddenly  during  a  sermon,  or  fa'in 
ower  a  staircase  in  a  dream. — But  I  am  aff  to  Inchkeith. 

Tickler.  Whizz.  [Flings  a  somerset  into  the  sea. 

Shepherd.  Ane — twa — three — four — five — sax — seven — 
aught — but  there's  nae  need  o'  coontin — for  nae  pearl-diver, 
in  the  Straits  o'  Madagascar  or  aff  the  coast  o'  Coromandel, 
can  haud  in  his  breath  like  Tickler.  Weel,  that's  surprisin. 
Yon  chaise  has  gane  about  half  a  mile  o'  gate  towards  Porty- 
belly  sin'  he  gaed  fizz  in  ou  tower  the  lugs  like  a  verra  rocket. 
Safe  us  !  what's  this  gruppin  me  by  the  legs  ?  A  sherk — a 
sherk — a  sherk  ! 


186  They  start  for  Inchkeith. 

Tickler  (yellowing  to  the  surface}.  Blabla — blabla — bla — 

Shepherd.  He's  keept  soomin  aneath  the  water  till   he's 
sick ;  but  every  man  for  himsel,  and  God  for  us  a' — I'm  atf . 
[SHEPHERD  stretches  away  to  sea  in  the  direction  of 
Inchkeith — TICKLER  in  pursuit. 

Tickler.  Every  sinew,  my  dear  James,  like  so  much  whip 
cord.  I  swim  like  a  salmon. 

Shepherd.  Oh,  sir !  that  Lord  Byron  had  but  been  alive 
the  noo,  what  a  sweepstakes  ! 

Tickler.  A  Liverpool  gentleman  has  undertaken,  James,  to 
swim  four-and-twenty  miles  at  a  stretch.  What  are  the  odds  ? 

Shepherd.  Three  to  one  on  Saturn  and  Neptune.  He'll 
get  numm. 

Tickler.  James,  I  had  no  idea  you  were  so  rough  on  the 
back.  You  are  a  perfect  otter. 

Shepherd.  Nae  personality,  Mr.  Tickler,  out  at  sea.  I'll 
compare  carcases  wi'  you  ony  day  o'  the  year.  Yet,  you're 
a  gran'  soomer — out  o'  the  water  at  every  stroke,  neck, 
breast,  shouthers,  and  half-way  doun  the  back — after  the 
fashion  o'  the  great  American  serpent.  As  for  me,  my  style 
o'  soomin's  less  showy — laigh  and  lown — less  hurry,  but  mair 
speed.  Come,  sir,  I'll  dive  you  for  a  jug  o'  toddy. 

[TICKLER  and  SHEPHERD  melt  away  like  foam-bells 
in  the  sunshine. 

Shepherd.  Mr.  Tickler ! 
Tickler.  James! 

Shepherd.  It's  a  drawn  bate — sae  we'll  baith  pay. —  Oh, 
sir  !  isna  Ernbro'  a  glorious  city  ?  Sae  clear  the  air,  yonner 
you  see  a  man  and  a  woman  stannin  on  the  tap  o' Arthur's  Seat ! 
I  had  nae  notion  there  were  sae  mony  steeples,  and  spires, 
and  columns,  and  pillars,  and  obelisks,  and  domes,  in  Embro' ! 
And  at  this  distance  the  ee  canna  distinguish  atween  then) 
that  belangs  to  kirks,  and  them  that  belangs  to  naval  mom* 


A  Dolphin  or  a  Shark?  187 

ments,  and  them  that  belangs  to  ile-gas  companies,  and  them 
that's  only  chimley-heids  in  the  auld  toun,  and  the  taps  o' 
groves,  or  single  trees,  sic  as  poplars ;  and  aboon  a'  and  ahint 
a',  craigs  and  saft-broo'd  hills  sprinkled  wi'  sheep,  lichts  and 
shadows,  and  the  blue  vapory  glimmer  o'  a  midsummer  day 
— het,  het,  het,  wi'  the  barometer  at  ninety  ;  but  here,  to  us 
twa,  bob-bobbin  amang  the  fresh,  cool,  murrnurin,  and  faemy 
wee  waves,  temperate  as  the  air  within  the  mermaid's  palace. 
Anither  dive ! 

Tickler.     James,  here  goes  the  Fly- Wheel. 

Shepherd.  That  beats  a'  !  He  gangs  round  in  the  water 
like  a  jack  roastin  beef.  I'm  thinkin  he  canna  stop  himsel. 
Safe  us !  he's  fun'  out  the  perpetual  motion. 

Tickler.  What  fish,  James,  would  you  incline  to  be,  if  put 
into  scales  ? 

Shepherd.  A  dolphin — for  they  hae  the  speed  o'  lichtnin. 
They'll  dart  past  and  roun'  about  a  ship  in  full  sail  before  the 
wind,  just  as  if  she  was  at  anchor.  Then  the  dolphin  is  a 
fish  o'  peace — he  saved  the  life  o'  a  poet  of  auld,  Arion,  wi' 
his  harp — and.  oh  !  they  say  the  cretur's  beautifu'  in  death — 
Byron,  ye  ken,  comparin  his  hues  to  those  o'  the  sun  settin 
ahint  the  Grecian  Isles.  I  sud  like  to  be  a  dolphin. 

Tickler.  I  should  choose  to  sport  shark  for  a  season.  In 
speed  he  is  a  match  for  the  dolphin — and  then,  James,  think 
what  luxury  to  swallow  a  well-fed  chaplain,  or  a  delicate  mid 
shipman,  or  a  young  negro  girl  occasionally  — 

Shepherd.  And  feenally  to  be  grupped  wi'  a  hyuck  in  a 
cocked  hat  and  feather,  at  which  the  shark  rises  as  a  trout 
does  at  a  flee,  hauled  on  board,  and  hacked  to  pieces  wi'  cut 
lasses  and  pikes,  by  the  jolly  crew  or  left  alive  on  the  deck, 
gutted  as  clean  as  a  dice-box,  and  without  an  inch  o'  bowels. 

Tickler.  Men  die  at  shore,  James,  of  natural  deaths  as  bad 
as  that — 


188  A    Whale  or  the  Sea-Serpent  f 

Shepherd.  Let  me  see — I  sud  hae  nae  great  objections  to 
be  a  whale  in  the  Polar  Seas.  Gran'  fun  to  fling  a  boatfu'  o' 
harpooners  into  the  air — or,  wi'  ae  thud  o'  your  tail,  to  drive 
in  the  stern-posts  o'  a  Greenlandman. 

Tickler.  Grander  fun  still,  James,  to  feel  the  inextricable 
harpoon  in  your  blubber,  and  to  go  snoving  away  beneath  an 
ice-floe  with  four  mile  of  line  connecting  you  with  your  dis 
tant  enemies. 

Shepherd.  But  then  whales  marry  but  ae  wife,  and  are  pas 
sionately  attached  to  their  offspring.  There,  they  and  I  are 
congenial  speerits.  Nae  fish  that  swims  enjoys  so  large  a 
share  of  domestic  happiness. 

Tickler.     A  whale,  James,  is  not  a  fish. 

Shepherd.  Isna  he  ?  Let  him  alane  for  that.  He's  ca'd 
a  fish  in  the  Bible,  and  that's  better  authority  than  Buffon. 
Oh,  that  I  were  a  whale ! 

Tickler.  What  think  you  of  a  summer  of  the  American  Sea- 
Serpent. 

Shepherd.  What  ?  To  be  constantly  cruised  upon  by  the 
haill  American  navy,  military  and  mercantile  !  No  to  be  able 
to  show  your  back  aboon  water  without  being  libelled  by  the 
Yankees  in  a'  the  newspapers,  and  pursued  even  by  pleasure- 
parties,  playin  the  hurdy-gurdy  and  smokin  cigars !  Besides, 
although  I  hae  nae  objection  to  a  certain  degree  o'  singularity, 
I  sudna  just  like  to  be  sae  very  singular  as  the  American  Sea- 
Serpent,  who  is  the  only  ane  o'  his  specie  noo  extant ;  and 
whether  he  dees  in  his  bed,  or  is  slain  by  Jonathan,  must  in 
cur  the  pain  and  the  opprobrium  o'  defunckin  an  auld  bache 
lor.  What's  the  matter  wi'  you,  Mr.  Tickler  ?  [Dives. 

Tickler.  The  calf  of  my  right  leg  is  rather  harder  than  is 
altogether  pleasant.  A  pretty  business  if  it  prove  the  cramp  ; 
and  the  cramp  it  is  sure  enough. — Hallo— James — James — 
James — hallo — I'm  seized  with  the  cramp — James — the 


Seized  with  Cramp.  189 

sinews  of  the  calf  of  my  right  leg  are  gathered  up  into  a  knot 
about  the  bulk  and  consistency  of  a  sledge-hammer — 

Shepherd.  Nae  tricks  upon  travellers.  You've  nae  cramp. 
Gin  you  hae,  streek  out  your  richt  hind  leg,  like  a  horse  geein 
a  funk — and  then  ower  on  the  back  o'  ye,  and  keep  floatin  for 
a  space,  and  your  calf '11  be  as  saf t's  a  cushion.  Lord  safe  us  ! 
what's  this  ?  Deevil  tak  me  if  he's  no  droonin.  Mr.  Tick 
ler,  are  you  droonin  ?  There  he's  doun  ance,  and  up  again — 
twice,  and  up  again  ; — but  it's  time  to  tak  haud  o'  him  by  tho 
hair  o'  the  head,  or  he'll  be  doun  amang  the  limpets  ! 

[SHEPHERD  seizes  TICKLER  by  the  locks. 

Tickler.  Oho — oho — oho — ho — ho — ho — hra — hra — hrach 
— hrach. 

Shepherd.  What  language  is  that  ?  Finnish  ?  Noo,  sir, 
dinna  rug  me  doun  to  the  bottom  alang  wi'  you  in  the  dead- 
thraws. 

Tickler.  Heaven  reward  you,  James — the  pain  is  gone — 
but  keep  near  me. 

Shepherd.  Whammle  yoursel  ower  on  your  back,  sir.  Thax 
111  do.  Hoo  are  you  now,  sir  ?  Yonner's  the  James  Watt  * 
steamboat,  Captain  Bain,  within  half  a  league.  Lean  on  my 
airm,  sir,  till  he  comes  alangside,  and  it  'ill  be  a  real  happiness 
to  the  captain  to  save  your  life.  But  what  '11  a'  the  leddies  do 
when  they're  hoistin  us  aboard  ?  they  maun  just  use  their  fans. 

Tickler.  My  dear  Shepherd,  T  am  again  floating  like  a 
turtle, — but  keep  within  hail,  James.  Are  you  to  windward 
or  leeward? 

Shepherd.  Right  astarn.  Did  you  ever  see,  sir,  in  a'  your 
born  days,  sic  a  sky  ?  Ane  can  scarcely  say  he  sees't,  for  it's 
maist  invisible  in  its  blue  beautifu*  tenuity,  as  the  waters  o'  a 
well !  It's  just  like  the  ee  o'  a  lassie  I  kent  lang  ago — the 

*The"  James  Watt"  plied  between  London  and  Edinburgh,  under  the 
command  of  Captain  Bain. 


190  The  Shepherd  of  the  Sea. 

langer  you  gazed  intil't,  the  deep,  deep,  deeper  it  grew — the 
cawmer  and  the  mair  cawm — composed  o'  a  smile,  as  an 
amythist  is  composed  o'  licht — and  seeming  something  im 
palpable  to  the  touch,  till  you  ventured,  wi'  fear,  joy,  and 
tremmlin  to  kiss  it — just  ae  hesitatin,  pantin,  reverential  kiss 
— and  then,  to  be  sure,  your  verra  sowl  kent  it  to  be  a  bonny 
blue  ee,  covered  wi'  a  lid  o'  dark  fringes,  and  drappin  aiblins 
a  bit  frichtened  tear  to  the  lip  o'  love. 

Tickler.  What  is  your  specific  gravity,  James  ?  You  float 
like  a  sedge. 

Shepherd.  Say  rather  a  Nautilus,  or  a  Mew.  I'm  native  to 
the  yelement. 

Tickler.  Where  learned  you  the  natatory  art,  my  dear 
Shepherd  ? 

Shepherd.  Do  you  mean  soomin  ?  In  St.  Mary's  Loch. 
For  a  haill  simmer  I  kept  plouterin  alang  the  shore,  and  pittin 
ae  fit  to  the  grim',  knockin  the  skin  aff  my  knees,  and  makin 
uae  progress,  till  ae  day,  the  gravel  haein  been  loosened  by  a 
flood,  I  plowpt  in  ower  head  and  ears,  and  in  my  confusion, 
turnin  my  face  to  the  wrang  airt,  I  sworn  across  the  loch  at 
the  widest  at  ae  stretch,  and  ever  after  that  could  hae  soomed 
ony  man  in  the  Forest  for  a  wager,  except  Mr.  David  Ballan- 
tyne,  that  noo  leeves  ower-by  yonner,  near  the  Hermitage 
Castle. 

Tickler.  Now,  James,  you  are,  to  use  the  language  of 
Spenser,  the  Shepherd  of  the  Sea. 

Shepherd.  Oh  that  I  had  been  a  sailor !  To  hae  circum 
navigated  the  warld !  To  hae  pitched  our  tents,  or  built  our 
bowers,  on  the  shores  o'  bays  sae  glitterin  wi'  league-lang 
wreaths  o'  shells,  that  the  billows  blushed  crimson  as  they 
murmured !  To  hae  seen  our  flags  burnin  meteor-like,  high 
up  amang  the  primaeval  woods,  while  birds  bright  as  ony 
buntin  sat  trimmin  their  plummage  amang  the  cordage,  sae 


The  Sailor's  Life.  191 

tame  in  that  island,  where  ship  had  hapiy  never  touched  afore, 
nor  ever  might  touch  again,  lying  in  a  latitude  by  itsel,  and 
far  out  o'  the  breath  o'  the  tredd-wunds  !  Or  to  hae  landed 
wi'  a'  the  crew,  marines  and  a',  excep  a  guard  on  shipboard 
to  keep  aff  the  crowd  o'  canoes,  on  some  warlike  isle,  tossin  wi' 
the  plumes  on  chieftains'  heads,  and  soun'-soun'-soundin  wi' 
gongs !  What's  a  man-o'-war's  barge,  Mr.  Tickler,  beautifu' 
sicht  though  it  be,  to  the  hundred-oared  canoe  o'  some  savage 
Island-king !  The  King  himsel  lying  in  state — no  dead,  but 
leevin,  every  inch  o'  him — on  a  platform — aboon  a'  his  war 
riors  standin  wi'  war-clubs,  and  stane-hatchets,  and  fish-bane 
spears,  and  twisted  mats,  and  tattooed  faces,  and  ornaments 
in  their  noses,  and  painted  een,  and  feathers  on  their  heads 
a  yard  heigh,  a'  silent,  or  burstin  out  o'  a  sudden  intil  shootin 
sangs  o'  welcome  or  defiance,  in  a  language  made  up  o'  a  few 
lang  strang  words — maistly  gutturals — and  gran'  for  the 
naked  priests  to  yell  intil  the  ears  o'  their  victims,  when  about 
to  cut  their  throats  on  the  altar-stane  that  Idolatry  had 
encrusted  with  blood,  shed  by  stormy  moonlicht  to  glut  the 
maw  of  their  sanguinary  god.  Or  say  rather — oh,  rather 
say,  that  the  white-winged  Wonder  that  has  brought  the 
strangers  frae  afar,  frae  lands  beyond  the  setting  sun,  has 
been  hailed  with  hymns  and  dances  o'  peace — and  that  a'  the 
daughters  of  the  Isle,  wi'  the  daughter  o'  the  King  at  their 
head,  come  a'  gracefully  windin  alang  in  a  figur,  that,  wi'  a 
thousan'  changes,  is  aye  but  ae  single  dance,  wi'  unsandalled 
feet  true  to  their  ain  wild  singin,  wi'  wings  fancifully  fastened 
to  their  shouthers,  and,  beautifu'  creturs !  a'  naked  to  the 
waist. — But  whare  the  deevil's  Mr.  Tickler  ?  Has  he  sunk 
during  my  soliloquy?  or  swum  to  shore?  Mr.  Tickler — Mr. 
Tickler — I  wush  I  had  a  pistol  to  fire  into  the  air,  that  he 
might  be  brought  to.  Yonner  he  is,  playing  at  porpuss.  Let 
me  try  if  1  can  reach  him  in  twenty  strokes — it's  no  aboon  a 


192  The  Shepherd's  Adventure. 

hunder  yards.  Five  yards  a  stroke — no  bad  soomin  in  dead 
water. — There,  I've  done  it  in  nineteen.  Let  me  on  my 
back  for  a  rest. 

Tickler.  I  am  not  sure  that  this  confounded  cramp — 

Shepherd.  The  cramp's  just  like  the  hiccup,  sir — never 
think  o't,  and  it's  gane.  I've  seen  a  white  lace  veil,  sic  as 
Queen  Mary's  drawn  in,  lyin  afloat,  without  stirrin  aboon  her 
snawy  broo,  saftenin  the  ee-licht — and  it's  yon  braided  clouds 
that  remind  me  o't,  motionless,  as  if  they  had  lain  there  a' 
their  lives  ;  yet,  wae's  me  !  perhaps  in  ae  single  hour  to  melt 
away  for  ever  ! 

Tickler.  James,  were  a  Mermaid  to  see  and  hear  you  mor 
alizing  so,  afloat  on  your  back,  her  heart  were  lost. 

Shepherd.  I'm  nae  favorite  noo,  I  suspeck,  amang  the 
Mermaids. 

Tickler.  Why  not,  James  ?  You  look  more  irresistible  than 
you  imagine.  Never  saw  I  your  face  and  figure  to  more 
advantage — when  lying  on  the  braes  o'  Yarrow,  with  your 
eyes  closed  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  shadows  of  poetical 
dreams  chasing  each  other  along  cheek  and  brow.  You  would 
make  a  beautiful  corpse,  James. 

Shepherd.  Think  shame  o'  yoursel,  Mr.  Tickler,  for  daurin 
to  use  that  word,  and  the  sinnies  o'  the  cauf  o'  your  richt  leg 
yet  knotted  wi'  the  cramp.  Think  shame  o'  yoursel !  That 
word's  no  canny. 

Tickler.  But  what  ail  the  Mermaids  with  the  Shepherd  ? 

Shepherd.  I  was  ance  lyin  half  asleep  in  a  sea-shore  cave 
o'  the  Isle  o'  Sky,  wearied  out  by  the  verra  beauty  o'  the 
moonlicht  that  had  keepit  lyin  for  hours  in  ae  lang  line  o' 
harmless  fire,  stretchin  leagues  and  leagues  to  the  rim  o'  the 
ocean.  Nae  sound,  but  a  bit  faint,  dim  plash — plash — plash 
o'  the  tide — whether  ebbin  or  flawin  I  ken  not — no  against, 
but  upon  the  weedy  sides  o'  the  cave — 


With  a  Mermaid.  193 

Tickler.— 

11  As  when  some  shepherd  of  the  Hebride  Isles, 
Placed  far  amid  the  melancholy  main  !  '* 

Shepherd.  That  soun's  like  Thamson — in  his  "  Castle  o' 
Indolence."  A'  the  haill  warld  was  forgotten — and  my  ain 
name — and  what  I  was — and  where  I  had  come  f  rae — and  why 
I  was  lyin  there — nor  was  I  onything  but  a  Leevin  Dream. 

Tickler.  Are  you  to  windward  or  leeward,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Something — like  a  caulder  breath  o'  moonlicht 
fell  on  my  face  and  breast,  and  seemed  to  touch  all  my  body 
and  my  limbs.  But  it  canna  be  mere  moonlicht,  thocht  I, 
for  at  the  same  time  there  was  the  whisperin — or  say,  rather, 
the  waverin  o'  the  voice — no  alang  the  green  cave  wa's,  but 
close  iritil  my  ear,  and  then  within  my  verra  breast, — sae,  at 
first,  for  the  soun'  was  saft  and  sweet,  and  wi'  a  touch  o' 
plaintive  wildness  in't  no  unlike  the  strain  o?  an  Eolian  harp, 
I  was  rather  surprised  than  feared,  and  maist  thocht  that  it 
was  but  the  wark  o'  my  ain  fancy,  afore  she  yielded  to  the 
dwawm  o'  that  solitary  sleep. 

Tickler.  James,  I  hear  the  Steamer. 

Shepherd.  I  opened  my  een,  that  had  only  been  half  steekit 
— and  may  we  never  reach  the  shore  again,  if  there  was  not 
I,  sir,  in  the  embrace  o'  a  Mermaid ! 

Tickler.  James — remember  we  are  well  out  to  Inchkeith. 
If  you  please,  no — 

Shepherd.  I  would  scorn  to  be  drooned  with  a  lee  in  my 
mouth,  sir.  It  is  quite  true  that  the  hair  o'  the  cretur  is 
green — and  it's  as  slimy  as  it's  green — slimy  and  sliddery  as 
the  sea-weed  that  cheats  your  unsteady  footing  on  the  rocks. 
Then  what  een  ! — oh,  what  een  ! — Like  the  boiled  een  o'  a 
cod's  head  and  shouthers  ! — and  yet  expression  in  them — an 
expression  o'  love  and  fondness,  that  would  hae  garred  an 
Eskimaw  scunner. 


194  TJie  Mermaid*  Embrace. 

Tickler.  James,  you  are  surely  romancing. 

Shepherd.  Oh,  dear,  dear  me ! — hech,  sirs  !  hech,  sirs ! — 
the  fishiness  o'  that  kiss  ! — I  had  hung  up  my  claes  to  dry  on 
a  peak  o'  the  cliff — for  it  was  ane  o'  thae  lang  midsummer 
nichts,  when  the  sea-air  itself  fans  ye  wi'  as  warm  a  sugh  as 
that  frae  a  leedy's  fan  when  you're  sittin  side  by  side  wi'  her 
in  an  arbor — 

Tickler.  Oh,  James — you  fox — 

Shepherd.  Sae  that  I  was  as  naked  as  either  you  or  me, 
Mr.  Tickler,  at  this  blessed  moment — and  whan  I  felt  mysel 
enveloped  in  the  hauns,  paws,  fins,  scales,  tail,  and  maw  o' 
the  Mermaid  o'  a  monster,  I  grued  till  the  verra  roof  o'  the 
cave  let  doun  drap,  drap,  drap  upon  us — me  and  the  Mer 
maid — and  I  gied  mysel  up  for  lost. 

Tickler.  Worse  than  Venus  and  Adonis,  my  dear  Shepherd. 

Shepherd.  I  began  mutterin  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  the 
Creed,  and  the  hundred  and  nineteenth  Psalm — but  a'  wudna 
do.  The  Mermaid  held  the  grup — and  while  I  was  splutterin 
out  her  kisses,  and  convulsed  waur  than  I  ever  was  under  the 
warst  nichtmare  than  ever  sat  on  my  stamach,  wi'  ae  desper 
ate  wallop  we  baith  gaed  tapsalteerie — frae  ae  sliddery  ledge 
to  anither — till,  wi'  accelerated  velocity,  like  twa  stanes,  in- 
creasin  accordin  to  the  squares  o'  the  distances,  we  played 
plunge  like  porpusses  into  the  sea,  a  thousan'  f adorn  deep — 
and  hoo  I  gat  rid  o'  the  briny  Beastliness  nae  man  kens  till 
this  day  ;  for  there  was  I  sittin  in  the  cave  chitterin  like 
a  drookit  cock,  and  nae  Mermaid  to  be  seen  or  heard  ;  al 
though,  wad  ye  believe  me,  the  cave  had  the  smell  o'  crabs 
and  labsters,  and  oysters,  and  skate,  and  fish  in  general, 
aneuch  to  turn  the  stamach  o'  a  whale  or  a  sea-lion. 

Tickler.  Ship  ahoy  ! — Let  us  change  our  position,  James 
Shall  we  board  the  Steamer  ? 

Shepherd.  Only  look  at  the  waves,  hoo  they  gang  welterin 


Ship  ahoy  !  1 95 

frae  her  prow  and  sides,  and  widen  in  her  wake  for  miles  aff  ! 
Gin  we  venture  ony  nearer,  we'll  never  wear  breeks  mair. 
Mercy  on  us  !  she's  bearin  doun  upon  us.  Let  us  soom  fast, 
and,  passing  across  her  bows,  we  shall  bear  up  to  windward 
out  o'  a'  the  commotion. — Captain  Bain  !  Captain  Bain  !  it's 
me  and  Mr.  Tickler,  taking  a  soom  for  an  appeteet — stop  the 
ingine  till  we  get  past  the  bowsprit. 

Tickler.  Heavens !  James,  what  a  bevy  of  ladies  on  deck  ! 
Let  us  dive. 

Shepherd.  You  may  dive — for  you  swim  improperly  high  ; 
but  as  for  me,  I  seem  in  the  water  to  be  a  mere  Head,  like  a 
cherub  on  a  church.  A  boat,  captain — a  boat ! 

Tickler.  James,  you  aren't  mad,  sure  ?  Who  ever  boarded 
a  steamer  in  our  plight  ?  There  will  be  fainting  from  stem 
to  stern,  in  cabin  and  steerage. 

Shepherd.  I  ken  that  leddy  in  the  straw  bannet  and  green 
veil,  and  ruby  sarsnet,  wi'  the  glass  at  her  ee.  Ye  ho — 
Miss — 

Tickler.  James — remember  how  exceedingly  delicate  a 
thing  is  a  young  lady's  reputation.  See,  she  turns  away  in 
confusion. 

Shepherd.  Captain,  I  say,  what  news  frae  London  ? 

Captain  Bain  (through  a  speaking-trumpet).  Lord  Welling 
ton's  amendment  on  the  bonding  clause  in  the  Corn  Bill 
again  carried  against  Ministers  by  133  to  122.*  Sixty-six 
shillings  ! 

Tickler.  What  says  your  friend  M'Culloch  to  that,  Captain  ? 

Shepherd.  Wha  cares  a  bodle  about  corn  bills  in  our 
situation  ?  What's  the  Captain  routin  about  noo  out  o' 

*  The  Duke  cf  Wellington's  amendment  on  the  Ministerial  measure  was,  that 
*  no  foreign  grain  in  bond  shall  be  taken  out  cf  bond  until  the  average  price 
of  corn  shall  have  reached  66s."— See  Alison's  History  of  Europe  from  1815  to 
1852,  vol.  iv.  p.  110 ;  also  Annual  Kegister,  1827,  p.  147. 


196  Rough  Water. 

his  speakin-trumpet  ?  But  he  may  just  as  weel  haud  hia 
tongue,  for  I  never  understand  ae  word  out  o'  the  mouth  o' 
a  trumpet. 

Tickler.  He  says  the  general  opinion  in  London  is  that  the 
Administration  will  stand — that  Canning  and  Brougham— 

Shepherd.  Canning  and  Brougham,  indeed  !  do  you  think, 
sir,  if  Canning  and  Brougham  had  been  soomin  in  the  sea, 
and  that  Canning  had  taen  the  cramp  in  the  cauf  o'  his  richt 
leg,  as  you  either  did,  or  said  you  did,  a  short  while  sin'  syne, 
that  Brougham  wad  hae  safed  him  as  I  safed  you  ?  Faith, 
no  he  indeed  !  Hairy  wad  hae  frhocht  nathing  o'  watching 
till  George  showed  the  croon  o'  his  head  aboon  water,  and 
then  hittin  him  on  the  temples. 

Tickler.  No,  no,  James.  They  would  mutually  risk  lives  for 
each  other's  sake.  But  no  politics  at  present ;  we're  getting 
into  the  swell,  and  will  have  our  work  to  do  to  beat  back 
into  smooth  water.  James,  that  was  a  facer. 

Shepherd.  Dog  on  it,  ane  wad  need  to  be  a  sea-maw,  or 
kitty-wake,  or  stormy  petrel,  or  some  ither  ane  o'  Bewick's 
birds — 

Tickler.  Keep  your  mouth  shut,  James,  till  we're  out  of 
the  swell. 

Shepherd.  Em — hem — umph — humph — whoo — whoo — 
whurr — whurr — herrachvacherach. 

Tickler.  Wh sy — whsy — whsy — whugh — whugh — shugh — 
shugh — prugh — ptsugh — prgugh. 

Shepherd.  It's  lang  sin'  I've  drank  sae  muckle  saut  water 
at  ae  sittin — at  ae  soomin,  I  mean — as  I  hae  dune,  sir,  sin' 
that  steamboat  gaed  by.  She  does  indeed  kick  up  a  deevil 
o'  a  rumpus. 

Tickler.  Whoo — whoo — whoof — whroo — whroo— whroof-- 
proof — ptroof — sprtf  ! 

Shepherd.  Ae  thing  I  maun  tell  you,  sir,  and  that's,  gin 


Arrival  of  Bronte.  197 

you  tak  the  cramp  the  noo,  you  maunna  expeck  ony  assist 
ance  frae  me — no,  gin  you  were  my  ain  father.  This  bates 
a'  the  swalls  !  Confoun'  the  James  Watt,  quoth  I. 

Tickler.  Nay,  nay,  James.  She  is  worthy  of  her  name — 
and  a  better  seaman  than  Captain  Bain  never  boxed  the 
compass.  He  never  comes  below  except  at  meal  times,  and 
a  pleasanter  person  cannot  be  at  the  foot  of  the  table.  All 
night  long  he  is  on  deck,  looking  out  for  squalls. 

Shepherd.  I  declare  to  you,  sir,  that  just  noo,  in  the 
trough  o'  the  sea,  I  didna  see  the  top  o'  the  Steamer's 
chimley.  See,  Mr.  Tickler, — see,  Mr.  Tickler — only  look 
here — only  look  here — HERE'S  BRONTE!  MR.  NORTH'S 
GREAT  NEWFUNLAN'  BRONTE  ! 

Tickler.  Capital — capital.  He  has  been  paying  his  father 
a  visit  at  the  gallant  Admiral's,  *  and  come  across  our  steps 
on  the  sands. 

Shepherd.  Puir  fallow — gran'  fallow — did  ye  think  we  was 
droonin  ? 

Bronte.  Bow — bow — bow — bow,  wow,  wow  — bow,  wow, 
wow. 

Tickler.  His  oratory  is  like  that  of  Bristol  Hunt  versus 
Sir  Thomas  Lethbridge.f 

Shepherd.  Sir,  you're  tired,  sir.  You  had  better  take  haud 
o'  his  tail. 

Tickler.  No  bad  idea,  James.  But  let  me  just  put  one  arm 
round  his  neck.  There  we  go.  Bronte,  my  boy,  you  swim 
strong  as  a  rhinoceros  ! 

Ifronte.  Bow,  wow,  wow — bow,  wow,  wow. 

Shepherd.  He  can  do  onything  but  speak. 

Tickler.  Why,  I  think,  James,  he  speaks  uncommonly  well 

*  Admiral  Otway. 

t  Henry  Hunt,  a  mob  orator  and  Radical  reformer,  M.  P.  for  Preston,  1830- 
31  ;  died  in  1835.  Sir  T.  Lethbridge,  a  Tory  M.  P.,  and  large  landed  proprie 
tor. 


198  Immortality  of  Bronte. 

Few  of  our  Scotch  Members  speak  better.     He   might  lead 
the  Opposition. 

Shepherd.  What  for  will  ye  aye  be  introducin  politics,  sir  ? 
But,  really,  I  hae  fund  his  tail  very  useful  in  that  swall ;  and 
let's  leave  him  to  himsel  noo,  for  twa  men  on  ae  dowg's  a 
sair  doundraucht.* 

Tickler.  With  what  a  bold   kind   eye   the   noble   animal 
keeps  swimming  between  us,  like  a  Christian  ! 

Shepherd.  I  hae  never  been  able  to  persuade  my  heart  and 
my  understandin  that  dowgs  haena  immortal  sowls.  See 
how  he  steers  himsel',  first  a  wee  towarts  me,  and  then  a  wee 
towarts  you,  wi'  his  tail  like  a  rudder.  His  sowl  maun  be 
immortal. 

Tickler.  I  am  sure,  James,  that  if  it  be,  I  sliall  be  extremely 
happy  to  meet  Bronte  in  any  future  society. 

Shepherd.  The  minister  wad  ca'  that  no  orthodox.  But 
the  mystery  o'  life  canna  gang  out  like  the  pluff  o'  a  cawnle. 
Perhaps  the  verra  bit  bonny  glitterin  insecks  that  we  ca' 
ephemeral,  because  they  dance  out  but  ae  single  day,  never 
dee,  but  keep  for  ever  and  aye  openin  and  shuttin  their  wings 
in  mony  million  atmospheres,  and  may  do  sae  through  a' 
eternity.  The  universe  is  aiblins  wide  aneuch. 

Tickler.  Eyes  right !  James,  a  boatful  of  ladies — with 
umbrellas  and  parasols  extended  to  catch  the  breeze.  Let 
us  lie  on  our  oars,  and  they  will  never  observe  us. 

Bronte.  Bow,  wow,  wow — bow,  wow,  wow. 

[Female  alarms  heard  from  the  pleasure-boat.  A 
gentleman  in  the  stern  rises  with  an  oar,  and 
stands  in  a  threatening  attitude. 

Tickler.  Ease  off  to  the  east,  James — Bronte,  hush  ! 

Shepherd.  I  howp  they've  nae  fool  ing-pieces — for  they  may 
tak  us  for  gulls,  and  pepper  us  wi'  swan-shots  or  slugs.  I'll 

*  f'oundruucht — down-drag. 


Tliey  reach  the  Shore.  199 

live  at  the  flash.     Yon's  no  a  gun  that  chiel  has   in  his 
haun  ? 

Tickler.  He  lets  fall  his  oar  into  the  water,  and  the  "  boatie 
rows — the  boatie  rows." — Hark,  a  song ! 

[Song  from  the  retiring  boat. 

Shepherd.  A  very  gude  sang,  and  very  well  sung — jolly 
companions,  every  one. 

Tickler.  The  fair  authors  of  the  Odd  Volume! 

Shepherd.  What's  their  names  ? 

Tickler.  They  choose  to  be  anonymous,  James  ;  and  that 
being  the  case,  no  gentleman  is  entitled  to  withdraw  the 
veil. 

Shepherd.  They're  sweet  singers,  howsomever,  and  the 
words  o'  their  sang  are  capital.  Baith  Odd  Volumes  are 
maist  ingenious,  well  written,  and  amusing. 

Tickler.  The  public  thinks  so — and  they  sell  like  wildfire. 

Shepherd.  I'm  beginning  to  get  maist  desperat  thursty, 
and  hungry  baith.  What  a  denner  wull  we  make  !  How 
mony  miles  do  you  think  we  hae  sworn  ? 

Tickler.  Three — in  or  over.  Let  me  sound. — Why,  James, 
my  toe  scrapes  the  sand.  "  By  the  Nail,  six !  " 

Shepherd.  I'm  glad  o't.  It  'ill  be  a  bonny  bizziness,  gif 
ony  neerdoweels  hae  run  aff  wi'  our  claes  out  o'  the  machines. 
But  gif  they  hae,  Bronte  'ill  sune  grup  them — wunna  ye, 
Bronte  ? 

Bronte.     Bow,  wow,  wow — bow,  wow,  wow. 

Shepherd.  Now,  Tickler,  that  our  feet  touch  the  grun',  I'll 
rin  you  a  race  to  the  machines  for  anither  jug. 

tickler.  Done — but  let  us  ha-ve  a  fair  start. — Once, 
twice,  thrice  ! 

[TICKLER  and  the  SHEPHERD  start,  with   BRONTE  in  the 
van,  amid  loud  acclamations  from  the  shore. — Scene  closes • 


SCENE  II.— Inside  of  Portobetto  Fly. 
Mrs.  GENTLE. — Miss  GENTLE. 

Miss  Gentle.  My  dear  mother  !  I  declare  there  comes  Mr, 
Tickler  and  Mr.  Hogg  !  Do  let  me  kiss  my  hand  to  them— 
perhaps  they  may — 

Tickler.  Ha  !  ladies — I  am  delighted  to  find  we  shall  have 
your  company  to  Edinburgh. —Hogg,  ascend. 

Shepherd.  Hoo  are  ye  the  day,  Mrs.  Gentle  ? — and  hoo  are 
you,  Miss  Mary  ?  God  bless  your  bonny  gentle  een.  Come 
in,  Mr.  Tickler — come  in. — Coachman,  pit  up  the  steps.  But 
gif  you've  ony  parshels  to  get  out  o'  the  office,  or  ony  honest 
outside  passengers  to  tak  up,  you  had  better  wait  a  wee  while 
on  them,  and,  as  it's  unco  het,  and  a'  up-hill,  and  your  beasts 
wearied,  tak  your  time,  my  man,  and  hurry  nae  man's  cattle. 
Miss  Mary,  you'll  hae  been  doun  to  the  dookin  ? 

Miss  Gentle.  No,  Mr.  Hogg  ;  I  very  seldom  bathe  in  the  sea. 
Bathing  is  apt  to  give  me  a  headache,  and  to  induce  sleepiness. 

Shepherd.  That's  a  sign  the  dookin  disna  agree  wi'  your 
constitution.  Yet  though  you  have  that  kind  o'  complexion, 
my  dear  Mem,  that  the  poet  was  dreaming  o'  when  he  said, 
"O  call  it  fair,  not  pale,"  I  howp  devoutly  that  your  health's 
gude.  I  howp,  Mrs.  Gentle,  your  dochter's  no  what's  ca'd 
delicate. 

Mrs.  Gentle.  Mary  enjoys  excellent  health,  Mr.  Hogg,  and  is 
much  in  the  open  air,  which,  after  all,  is  the  best  of  baths. 

Miss  Gentle.  I  am  truly  happy,  sir,  to  meet  with  you  again 
so  soon  after  that  charming  evening  at  Buchanan  Lodge.  I 
hope  you  are  all  well  at  Mount  Benger  ? 

Shepherd.  Better  than  well ;  and  next  moon  the  mistress 
expects  to  see  your  mother  and  you  alang  wi'  Mr.  North, 


A  Poet's  Instincts.  201 

according  to  your  promise.  You're  no  gaun  to  break  it  ? 
What  for  are  you  lookin  sae  grave,  baith  o'  you  ?  I  dinna 
understan'  this — I  am  verra  near  about  gaun  to  grow  a  wee 
angry. 

Miss  Gentle.  When  my  dear  sister  shall  have  recovered 
sufficient  strength  for  a  little  tour  in  the  country,  her  physi 
cian  has  recommended — 

Shepherck  No  anither  word.  She  sail  come  out  wi'  you  to 
Yarrow.  I've  seen  near  a  dizzen  o'  us  in  Mr.  North's  coach 
afore  noo,  and  no  that  crooded  neither.  You  fower  'ill  ilka  ane 
hae  your  corner — and  you,  Mem,  Mrs.  Gentle,  and  Mr.  North, 
'ill  be  taken  for  the  mother  and  the  father — and  Miss  Mary 
and  Miss  Ellenor  for  your  twa  dochters ;  the  ane  like  Bessy 
Bell,  and  the  ither  like  Mary  Gray. 

Miss  Gentle.  Most  extraordinary,  Mr.  Hogg — why,  my  dear 
friend's  name  absolutely  is  Elliuor ! 

Shepherd.  The  moment  I  either  see  a  young  leddy,  or  lassie 
indeed  o'  ony  sort,  or  even  hear  them  spoken  o'  by  ane  that 
lo'es  them,  that  moment  I  ken  their  Christian  name.  What 
process  my  mind  gangs  through  I  canna  tell,  except  that  it's 
intuitive  like,  and  instantawneous.  The  soun'  o'  the  unpro- 
nounced  name,  or  raither  the  shadow  o'  the  soun',  comes 
across  my  mind,  and  I'm  never  wrang,  ony  majr  than  if  I  had 
heard  the  wean  baptized  in  the  kirk. 

Miss  Gentle.  What  fine  apprehensions  are  given  to  the 
poet's  gifted  soul  and  senses ! 

Shepherd.  A  July  at  Mount  Benger  will  add  twenty  years 
to  Miss  Ellenor's  life.  She  sail  hae  asses'  milk — and  a  stool 
to  sit  on  in  the  byre  every  riicht  when  the  "  kye  come  hame  " 
to  be  milked — for  there's  naething  better  for  that  complaint 
than  the  balmy  breath  o'  kine. 

Miss  Gentle.  God  bless  you,  sir,  you  are  so  considerate  ! 

Shepherd.  And  we'll  tak  care  no  to  let  her  walk  on  thegerse 


202  July  at  Mount  Benger. 

when  the  dews  are  on, — and  no  to  stay  out  ower  late  in  the 
gloamin  ;  and  in  case  o'  a  chance  shower — for  there's  nae 
countin  on  them — she  sail  hae  my  plaid — and  bonny  she'll 
look  in't,  gif  she  be  onything  like  her  freen  Miss  Mary 
Gentle — and  we'll  row  in  a  boatie  on  St.  Mary's  Loch  in  the 
sunshine — and  her  bed  sail  be  made  cozy  every  nicht  wi'  our 
new  brass  warmin-pan,  though  there's  no  as  much  damp 
about  a'  the  house  as  to  dim  a  lookin-glass — and  her  food 
sail  be  Yarrow  truits,  and  Eltrive  chickens,  and  licht  barley- 
scones,  wi'  a  glass  o'  the  mistress's  currant-wine. — But  I'm 
gettin  wearisome,  Mems — and,  gude  safe  us !  there's  Bronte 
fechtin  wi'  a  carter's  mastiff.  We're  a  mile  frae  Portybelly, 
and  I  never  was  sensible  o'  the  Fly  ha'in  steered  frae  the 
cotch-omsh.  Driver — driver,  stop,  or  thae  twa  dowgs  'ill 
devoor  ane  anither.  There's  nae  occasion — Bronte  has 
garred  him  flee,  and  that  carter  'ill  be  wise  to  haud  his  haun; 
for  faith,  gif  he  strikes  Bronte  wi'  his  whup,  he'll  be  on  the 
braid  o'  his  back  in  a  jiffy,  wi'  a  haill  set  o'  teeth  in  his 
wizand,  as  lang's  my  fingers,  and  as  white  as  yours,  Miss 
Mary  ; — but  wull  ye  let  me  look  at  that  ring,  for  I'm  unco 
curious  in  precious  stanes  ? 

[SHEPHERD  takes  Miss  GENTLE'S  hand  into  his. 

Miss  Gentle.  It  has  been  in  our  family,  sir,  for  several 
centuries,  and  I  wear  it  for  my  grandmother's  sake,  who 
took  it  off  her  finger  and  put  it  on  mine  a  few  days  before 
she  died. 

Shepherd.  Mrs.  Gentle,  I  see  your  dochter's  haun's  just  like 
your  ain — the  back  narrowish,  but  rather  a  wee  plumpy — 
fingers  sma*  and  taper,  without  being  lang — and  the  beautifu' 
wee  member,  pawm  an*  a',  as  saft  and  warm  as  velvet,  that 
has  been  no  verra  far  aff  the  fire.  Happy  he  whom  Heaven 
ordains,  on  some  nae  distant  day,  to  put  the  thin,  unadorned, 
•jnrubied  ring  on  this  finger — my  dear  Mary — this  ane,  the 


Tickler  asleep.  203 

neist  to  the  wee  finger  o'  the  left  haun — and  gin  you'll  ask 
me  to  the  wedding,  you  shall  get,  my  bonny  doo,  warm  frao 
this  heart  o'  mine,  a  faither's  blessing. 

Mrs.  Gentle.  Let  me  promise  for  Mary,  Mr.  Hogg  ;  and  on 
that  day,  you,  Mr.  North,  and  Mr.  Tickler  will  dine  with  me 
at  Trinity  Cottage. 

Shepherd.  I'll  answer  for  Mr.  Tickler.  But  hoosh — speak 
lown,  or  we'll  wauken  him.  I'm  never  sae  happy  in  his 
company  as  when  he's  sleepin — for  his  animal  spirits,  at 
times,  is  maist  outrawageous — his  wut  incessant — and  the 
verra  een  o'  him  gleg  as  wummles,  mair  than  I  can  thole,  for 
hours  thegither  fixed  on  mine,  as  gin  he  wushed  to  bore  a 
hole  through  a  body's  head,  frae  oss  frontis  to  cerebellum. 

Mrs.  Gentle.  Well,  Mr.  Hogg,  this  is  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  ever  saw  Mr.  Tickler  asleep.  I  fear  he  has  been  over 
powered  by  the  sun. 

Shepherd.  No,  Mem — by  soomin.  He  and  I,  and  Bronte 
there,  took  a  soom  nearly  out  to  Inchkeith — and  no  being 
accustomed  to  it  for  some  years,  he's  unco  comatose.  There's 
no  ae  single  thing  in  a'  this  warld  that  he's  sae  severe  on  in 
other  folk  as  fa'in  asleep  in  company — let  them  even  hae  sat 
up  the  haill  nicht  afore,  ower  bowl  or  book  ; — but  that  trance 
is  like  a  judgment  on  him,  and  he'll  be  real  wud  *  at  me  for 
no  waukenin  him,  when  lie  opens  his  een  as  the  wheels  stop, 
and  he  fin's  that  I've  had  baith  the  leddies  a'  the  way  up  to 
mysel.  But  you  can  see  him  at  ony  time — whereas  a  sight 
o'  me  in  Awmrose's  is  guid  for  sair  een,  on  an  average  only 
but  ance  a  season.  Mrs.  Gentle,  did  you  ever  see  ony  person 
sleep  mair  like  a  gentleman? 

Mrs.  Gentle.  Everything  Mr.  Tickler  does,  Mr.  Hogg,  is 
like  a  gentleman. 

Shepherd.  When   he's  dead  he'll  look  like  a  gentleman. 

*  Wild— angry. 


204  Tictcler  in  the  Drawing- Room. 

Even  if  ane  could  for  a  moment  mak  sic  a  supposition,  he 
would  look  like  a  gentleman  if  he  were  hanged. 

Mrs   Gentle.  Oh,  shocking ! — My  dear  sir — 

Shepherd.  My  admiration  o'  Mr.  Tickler  has  nae  bounds, 
Msm.  He  would  look  like  a  gentleman  in  the  stocks — or 
the  jougs — or  the  present  Ministry — 

Mrs.  Gentle.  I  certainly  never  saw  any  person  enter  a  draw 
ing-room  with  an  air  of  more  courteous  dignity,  more  heart 
felt  politeness,  more  urbanity,  sir, — a  word,  I  believe,  derived — 

Shepherd.  It's  no  ae  man  in  fifty  thousan'  that's  entitled 
to  hae  what's  ca'd  a  mainner.  Maist  men,  on  entering  a 
room,  do  weel  just  to  sit  doun  on  the  first  chair  they  lay 
their  haun  on — or  to  gang  intil  the  window — or  lean  against 
the  wa' — or  keep  lookin  at  pictures  on  a  table — till  the 
denner-bell  rings.  But  Mr.  Tickler  there — sax  feet  four — 
threescore  and  ten — wi'  heigh  feturs  * — white  hair — ruddy 
cheeks — paircin  een — naturally  eloquent — fu'  o'  anecdote  o' 
the  olden  time — independent  in  sowl,  body  and  estate — geyan 
proud — a  wee  mad — rather  deafish  on  the  side  of  his  head 
that  happens  to  be  neist  a  ninny — he,  Mem,  is  entitled  by 
nature  and  art  to  hae  a  mainner,  and  an  extraordinar  mainner 
sometimes  it  is  f — 

Mrs.  Gentle.  I  think  Mr.  Tickler  is  about  to  shake  off  his 
drowsiness. 

Tickler.  Has  that  lazy  fellow  of  a  coachman  not  got  all  his 
parcels  and  passengers  collected  yet  ?  Is  he  never  going  to 
set  off?  Ay,  there  we  go  at  last.  This  Portobello,  Mrs. 
Gentle,  is  really  a  wonderful  place.  That  building  reminds 
me  of  the  Edinburgh  Post-Office. 

Shepherd.  We're  in  Embro',  sir,  we're  in  Embro',  and 
you've  been  snorin  like  a  bittern  or  a  frog  in  Tarras  MOSR. 

Tickler.  Ladies — can  I  hope  ever  to  be  pardoned  for  having 
fallen  asleep  in  such  presence  ?  Yet,  could  I  think  that  the 

*  Feturs— features  t  Mr.  Robert  Sym  is  here  painted  to  the  life. 


Thermometer  at  Eighty.  205 

£irilt  of  sleep  had  been  aggravated  by  being  habit  and  repute 
a  snorer,  suicide  alone  could — 

Mrs.  Gentle.  During  your  slumber,  sir,  you  drew  your  breath 
as  softly  as  a  sleeping  child. 

Tickler.  My  offence,  then,  is  not  inexpiable. 

Shepherd.  I  am  muckle  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  sleepin — and 
I  drew  up  the  window  on  your  side,  that  you  michtna  catch 
cauld  ;  for,  sir,  though  you  draw  your  breath  as  saftly  as  a 
sleepin  child,  you  hae  nae  notion  how  wide  open  you  haud 
your  mouth.  You'll  do  the  same  for  me  another  time. 

[  The  coach  stops,  and  the  SHEPHERD  hands  out  Miss  GENTLE 
— Mr.  TICKLER  gallantly  performing  the  same  office  to  the 
Lady  Mother. 

Bronte.  Bow,  wow,  wow — bow,  wow,  wow.     [Scene  closes. 

SCENE  TIL — Mr.  Ambrose's  Hotel,  Picardy  Place— Pitt  Parlor. 

Mr.  NORTH  lying  on  a  sofa,  and  Mr.  AMBROSE  fanning  him 
with  a  peacock's  tail. 

North.  These  window-ventilators,  Mr.  Ambrose,  are  indeed 
admirable  contrivances,  and  I  must  get  them  adopted  at  the 
Lodge.  No  wind  that  blows  suits  this  room  so  well  as  the 
south-east.  Do  you  think  I  might  venture  on  another  water- 
ice  before  dinner  ?  The  pine-apple  we  shall  reserve.  Thank 
you,  Ambrose — that  fan  almost  makes  me  melancholy. 
Demetrius  was  truly  a  splendid — a  gorgeous — a  glorious  bird 
— and  methinks  I  see  him  now  affronting  Phoebus  with  his 
thousand  lidless  eyes  intensely  bright  within  the  emerald  haze 
by  which  they  were  all  encircled  and  overshadowed.  Hark  ! 
the  timepiece  sweetly  strikes,  as  with  a  silver  bell,  the  hour 
of  five ! — Cease  your  fanning,  mine  host  most  worthy,  and 
let  the  dinner  appear — for  ere  a  man,  with  moderate  haste, 


206  "A  Cauld  Denner:' 

might  count  a  hundred,  Tickler  and  the  Shepherd  will  be  in 
the  presence.  Ay,  God  bless  his  honest  soul,  there  is  my 
dear  James's  laugh  in  the  lobby. 

(Enter  SHEPHERD  and  TICKLER  and  BRONTE.) 

Shepherd.  Here  I  am,  sir,  gloriously  hungry.  My  stamach, 
Mr.  North,  as  weel's  my  heart,  's  in  the  richt  place.  I'm  nae 
glutton — nae  gormandeezer — but  a  man  o'  a  gude,  a  great 
appeteet — and  for  the  next  half-hour  I  shall  be  as  perfectly 
happy  as  ony  man  in  a'  Scotland. 

Tickler.    Take  a  few  biscuits,  James,  till — 

Shepherd.  Biskits  !  I  could  crunch  the  haill  tot  o'  them  like 
sae  monv  wafers.  Rax  me  ower  ane  o'  thae  cabin-biskits  o'  a 
man-o'-war — there — smash  into  flinders  flees  it  at  ae  stroke  o' 
my  elbow — but  here  comes  the  ROOND  ! 

North.  Mr.  Ambrose,  I  ordered  a  cold  dinner — 

Shepherd.  A  cauld  denner !  Wha  the  deevil  in  his  seven 
senses  wad  condescend  to  sit  doun  till  a  cauld  denner  !  Hail, 
Hotch-potch  !  What  a  Cut  o'  Sawmon  !  That  maun  hae  been 
a  noble  fish  !  Come  forrit,  my  wee  chiel,  wi'  the  chickens, 
and  you  bigger  callant,  wi'  the  tongue  and  ham.  Tak  tent, 
ye  auld  dominee,  and  no  scale  the  sass  o'  the  sweet-breads  ! 
Curry's  a  gran  thing,  geyan  late  on  in  a  denner,  when  the 
edge  o'  the  appeteet's  a  wee  turned,  and  you're  rather  be- 
ginnin  to  be  stawed.*  Mr.  Awmrose,  I'll  thank  ye  to  lend 
me  a  pocky-haundkershief,  for  I've  forgotten  mine  in  my 
wallise,  and  my  mouth's  waterin.  There,  Mr.  North,  there- 
set  in  his  fit-stule  aneath  the  table.  I  ca'  this,  sir,  a  tastefu' 
and  judicious  denner  for  three.  Whisht,  sirs.  "  God  bless 
us  in  these  mercies,  and  make  us  truly  thankful.  Amen  !  " 

Tickler.  Hodge-podge,  Hogg  ? 

Shepherd.  Only  three  ladlefu's. — Mair  peas.  Dip  deeper 
—That's  it. 

*  Stowed— satiated. 


The  First  Tory  Rector.  207 

North.  Boiling  broth,  with  the  thermometer  at  eighty  ! 

Shepherd.  I  carena  if  the  fermometer  war  at  aught  hunder 
and  aughty.  I'll  eat  het  hotch-potch  against  Mosshy  Shau- 
bert* — only  I'll  no  gae  intil  the  oven — neither  will  I  eat 
arsenick  or  phosphorus.  Noo,  Mr.  Tickler,  my  hotch-potch  is 
dune,  and  I'll  drink  a  pint  o'  porter  wi'  you  frae  the  tap. 

[Mr.  AMBROSE  places  the  pewter. 

Shepherd.  Wha  wull  the  College  laddies  make  Rector  neist  ? 
I'll  tell  you  wha  they  should  eleck. 

North.  Whom,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Just  yoursel.  They've  had  a  dynasty  o'  Whigs 
— Jaffrey,  and  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  and  Brougham,  and 
Cammell — and  noo  they  should  hae  a  dynasty  o'  Tories. 
THE  FIRST  GREAT  TORY  RECTOR  SHOULD  BE  CHRISTOPHER 
NORTH. 

North.  No — no — no,  James.     Nolo  Episcopari. 

Shepherd.  What  for  no  ?  Hand  your  tongue.  I'll  mak  an 
appeal  to  the  laddies,  and  your  election  is  sure.  First,  you're 
the  auldest  Tory  in  Scotland — secondly,  you're  the  bauldest 
Tory  in  Scotland — thirdly,  you're  the  wuttiest  Tory  in  Scot 
land — fourthly,  you're  the  wisest  Tory  in  Scotland.  That 
Tammas  Cammell  is  a  mair  popular  poet  than  you,  sir,  I 
grant ;  but  that  he  has  ae  tenth  pairt  o'  your  poetical  genius 
I  deny.  As  a  miscellawneous  writer  on  a'  subjects,  human 
and  divine,  he  is  no  to  be  named  wi'  you,  sir,  in  the  same 
lifetime — and  as  an  EDITOR,  he  is,  compared  wi'  CHRISTO 
PHER  NORTH — but  as  a  spunk  to  the  Sun  ! 

Tickler.  Rector !  a  glass  of  hock  or  sauterne  ? 

North.  Mr.  Ambrose,  the  Peacock's  Tail,  if  you  please. 
The  room  is  getting  very  hot. 

Shepherd.    Oh,  sir,  but  you  look  bonny  when  you  blush.  I 

*  A  fire-eater  of  those  days.    He  could  handle,  it  is  said,  red-hot  iron,  and 
enter  with  impunity  an  oven  in  which  beef-steaks  were  cooking. 


JOS  North  as  a    Vegetarian. 

can  conceeve  a  virgin  o'  saxteen  fa'in  in  love  wi'  you. — Rec 
tor,  your  good  health.  Mr.  Awmrose,  fill  the  Rector's  glass. 
Oh,  sir,  but  you  wad  Ink  gran'  in  your  robs.  Jaffrey  and 
CammelFs  but  pechs  *  to  you — the  verra  stoop  o'  your 
shouthers  would  be  dignified  aneath  a  goon — the  gait  o'  the 
gout  is  unco  philosophical — and  wi'  your  crutch  in  your 
nieve,  you  would  seem  the  champion  o'  Truth,  ready  either 
to  defend  the  passes  against  the  wily  assaults  of  Falsehood, 
or  to  follow  her  into  her  ain  camp,  storm  the  intrenchments, 
and  slaughter  her  whole  army  o'  sceptics. — Mr.  Awmrose, 
gie  me  a  clean  plate — I'm  for  some  o'  the  curried  kernels. 

North.  I  have  some  thoughts,  James,  of  relinquishing 
animal  food,  and  confining  myself,  like  Sir  Richard  Phillips, 
to  vegetable  matter. 

Shepherd.  Ma  troth,  sir,  there  are  mony  millions  o'  Sir 
Richard  Phillipses  in  the  world,  if  a'  that's  necessary  to 
make  ane  be  abstinence  frae  animal  food.  It's  my  belief  that 
no  aboon  ane  in  ten  o'  mankind  at  large  pree  animal  food 
frae  week's  end  to  week's  end.  Sir  Richard  Phillips,  on 
that  question,  is  in  a  great  majority. 

Tickler.  North,  accustomed,  James,  all  his  life,  to  three 
courses — fish,  flesh,  and  fowl — would  think  himself  an  abso 
lute  phenomenon  or  miracle  of  man,  were  he  to  devote  the 
remainder  of  his  meals  to  potatoes  and  barley  bannocks, 
pease-soup,  maccaroni,  and  the  rest  of  the  range  of  bloodless 
but  sappy  nature.  How  he  would  be  laughed  at  for  his 
heroic  resolution,  if  overheard  by  three  million  strapping 
Irish  beggars,  with  their  bowels  yearning  for  potatoes  and 
potheen  ! 

North.  No  quizzing,  boys,  of  the  old  gentleman. 

Shepherd.  I  agree  wi'  him  in  thinkin  Sir  Isaac  Newton  out 
o'  his  reckonin  entirely  about  gravitation.  There's  nae  sic 

*  Pechs — pigmies. 


Gravitation  unnecessary.  209 

thing  as  a  law  o'  gravitation  !  What  would  be  the  use  o't  ? 
vVull  onybody  tell  me  that  an  apple  or  a  stane  wudna  fa'  to 
the  grun'  without  sic  a  law  ?  Sumphs  that  say  sae  !  They 
fa'  to  the  grun'  because  they're  heavy. 

North.  Gentlemen,  cheese  ?. 

Shepherd.  Na,  na — nae  cheese.  Cheese  is  capital  in  the 
forenoons,  or  the  afternoons  either,  when  you've  had  nae 
ither  denner,  especially  wi'  fresh  butter  and  bread ;  but  nane 
but  gluttonous  epicures  wad  hae  recourse  to  it  after  they  hae 
been  stuffin  themsels,  as  we  hae  noo  been  doin  for  the  last 
hour,  wi'  three  coorses,  forbye  hotch-potch  and  puddins. — 
Draw  the  cloth,  Mr.  Awmrose,  and  down  wi'  the  Deevil's 
Punch-Bowl. 

North.  You  will  find,  I  trust,  that  it  breathes  the  very 
Spirit  of  the  West.  St.  Mungo's  Cathedral,  you  know,  is  at 
the  bottom — and  near  it  the  monument  of  John  Knox — 
almost  as  great  a  reformer  in  his  day  as  I  in  mine ;  and  had 
the  West  India  trade  then  flourished,  no  doubt  he  had  been 
as  religiously  devoted  to  cold  Glasgow  Punch.  I'll  answer 
.for  him  that  he  was  no  milksop. 

[MR.  AMBROSE  and  assistants  deposit  the  Devil's 
Punch- Bowl  in  the  centre  of  the  circular  table. 

North.  THE  KING. 

Shepherd.  I  took  the  hips  frae  you  last  time,  Mr.  North,— 
tak  you  the  hips  frae  me  this  time.  .  .  . 

North.  The  wickedness  of  the  whole  world,  James,  is  fear 
some.  Many  a  sleepless  night  I  pass  thinking  of  it,  and 
endeavoring  to  digest  plans  for  the  amelioration  of  my 
species. 

Shepherd.  A'  in  vain,  a'  in  vain !  The  bit  wean  at  its 
mother's  breast,  lang  afore  it  can  speak,  girns  like  an  imp  o' 
sin ;  and  the  auld  man,  sittin  palsied  and  pillow-prapped  in 
his  arm-chair  at  the  neuk  o'  the  fire,  grows  black  i'  the  face 


210  Ingralititde. 

wi'  rage,  gin  his  parritch  is  no  richt  biled,  or  the  potawtiea 
ower  hard  ;  and  prefaces  his  mummied  prayer  wi'  a  mair 
mummied  curse. 

Tickler.  Your  language,  James,  has  been  particularly  strong 
all  this  evening.  The  sea  is  bracing. 

Shepherd.  The  lassie  o'  saxteen  'ill  rin  awa  wi'  a  tinkler, 
and  break  her  father's  heart.  He  dees,  and  his  poor  discon 
solate  widow,  wha  has  worn  a  deep  black  veil  for  a  towmont, 
that  she  mayna  see  or  be  seen  by  the  sun,  marries  an  Eerish 
sodger ;  and  neist  time  you  see  her,  she  has  naething  on  her 
head  but  a  dirty  mutch,  and  she's  gaun  up  and  doun  the 
street  half-fou,  wi'  an  open  bosom,  sucklin  twuns  ! 

Tickler.  Ephesian  matron  ! 

Shepherd.  Gie  an  advocate  bizziness  whan  he's  starvin  at 
the  tap  o'  a  common  stair,  wull  he  help  you  to  fit  out  your 
son  for  India  when  he  has  become  a  Judge,  inhabiting  a 
palace  in  Moray  Place  ?  Gie  a  preacher  a  kirk,  and  in  three 
months  he  insults  his  pawtron.  Buy  up  a  naitural  son,  stap 
by  stap,  in  the  airmy,  till  he's  a  briggadeer,  and  he'll  disoun 
his  ain  father,  and  pretend  that  he  belangs  to  a  distant 
branch  o'  the  stem  o'  some  noble  family — although,  aiblins, 
he  never  had  on  stockins  till  he  was  ensign,  and  up  to  the 
date  o'  his  first  commission  herded  the  kye.  'Get  a  reprieve 
for  a  rubber  the  nicht  afore  execution,  and  he  sail  celebrate 
the  anniversary  o'  his  Free  Pardon  in  your  pantry,  carryin 
aff  wi'  him  a  silver  trencher  and  the  branching  cawnlesticks. 
In  short,  do  a'  the  gude  you  can  to  a'  mankind,  and  naebody 
'ill  thank  you.  But  come  nearer  to  me,  Mr.  North — lend  me 
your  ear,  sir,  it's  richt  it  sud  be  sae — for,  let  a  man  luk  into 
his  ain  heart — the  verra  man — me — or  you — or  Mr.  Tickler 
there — that  has  been  lamentin  ower  the  original  sin  o'  our 
fellow-creturs, — and  oh !  what  a  sicht  does  he  see  there — 
just  a  mass  o'  corruption  !  We're  waur  than  the  warst  o' 


North  out  of  his  Depth!  211 

them  we  hae  been  consignin  to  the  pit,  and  grue  to  peep 
ovver  the  edge  o't,  lest  Satan,  wha  is  stannin  girnin  ahint 
our  back,  gie  us  a  dunge  when  we're  no  mindin,  and  bury  us 
in  the  brimstone. 

Tickler.  Oh,  ho,  gents — from  libelling  individuals,  you 
two  are  now  advancing  to  libel  human  nature  at  large.  For 
my  own  part,  I  have  a  most  particular  esteem  for  human 
nature  at  large — and — 

Shepherd.  Your  views  is  no  scriptural,  Mr.  Tickler. 

North.  Perhaps,  Tickler,  we  are  getting  out  of  our  depths. 

Shepherd.  Gettin  out  o'  your  deepth !  Ma  faith,  Mr. 
North,  when  ye  get  out  o'  your  deepth,  ither  folk  '11  be 
drooning — when  the  water's  up  to  your  chin,  there  '11  be  a  sair 
jinglin  in  maist  throats  ;  and  when  it's  risen  out-ower  your 
nose,  sir,  there'll  be  naething  less  than  a  universal  deluge. 

North.  May  I  believe,  sir,  what  I  hear  from  so  many  quar 
ters,  that  you  are  about  editing  the  SOUTHSIDE  PAPERS  ? 

Tickler.  You  may.     The  Preface  is  at  press. 

Shepherd.  That's  gran'  news ! — But,  pity  me,  there's  John 
Knox's  moniment  and  the  Glasgow  Cathedral  reappearin 
aboon  the  subsidin  waves  !  Auither  bowl,  sir  ? 

North.  Not  a  drop.  We  have  timed  it  to  a  minute — nine 
o'clock.  You  know  we  are  all  engaged — and  we  are  not 
men  to  neglect  an  engagement. 

Shepherd.  Especially  to  sooper  wi'  leddies — let's  aff.  Oh, 
man!  Bronte,  but  you  have  behaved  weel — never  opened 
your  mouth  the  haill  nicht — but  sat  listenin  there  to  our 
conversation.  Mony  a  Christian  puppy  micht  take  a  lesson 
frae  thee. 

Bronte.  Bow — wow— wow. 

Shepherd.  What  spangs  !  [Exeunt  omnes. 


XV. 

THE  SHEPHERD  IS  ATTACKED  BY  TIC-DO ULOUREUX, 
ANGINA  PECTORIS,  AND  JAUNDICE. 


SCENE  I. — Picardy  Place — South-East  Drawing-room. 
The  SHEPHERD  solus. 

Shepherd.  Perfeck  enchantment !  Ae  single  material  coal- 
fire  multiplied  by  mirrors  into  a  score  o'  unsubstantial  reflec 
tions,  ilka  image  burnin  awa  as  brichtly  up  its  ain  shadowy 
chimley  as  the  original  Prototeep ! — Ma  faith,  you're  a  maist 
magnificent  time-piece,  towerin  there  on  the  mantel,*  mair 
like  a  palace  wi'  thae  ivory  pillars,  or  the  verra  temple  o' 
Solomon !  Mony,  certes,  is  the  curious  contrivance  for  notin 
time !  The  hour-glass — to  my  mind  the  maist  impressive, 
perhaps,  o'  them  a* — as  ye  see  the  sand  perpetually  dreep- 
dreepin  awa  momently,  and  then  a'  dune,  just  like  life. 
Then,  wi'  a  touch  o'  the  haun,  or  whammle  in  which  there's 
aye  something  baith  o'  feel  in  and  o'  thocht,  there  begins 
anither  era,  or  epoch  of  an  hour,  during  which  ane  o'  your 
ain  bairns,  wha  has  been  lang  in  a  decline,  and  visited  by  the 
doctor  only  when  he's  been  at  ony  rate  passin  by,  gies  a 
groanlike  sich,  and  ye  ken  in  a  moment  that  he's  dead ;  or 
an  earthquake  tumbles  down  Lisbon,  or  some  city  in  Cala 
bria,  while  a'  the  folk,  men,  women,  and  children,  fall  down 

*  Mantel— cliimney-piece. 
212 


Poetry  of  the  Sun-dial.  213 

on  their  knees,  or  are  crushed  aiblins  by  falling  churches. 
"  The  dial-stane  aged  and  green," — ane  a'  Caramel's  fine 
lines  !  Houses  change  families  not  only  at  Michaelmas,  but 
often,  on  a  sudden  summons  frae  death,  there  is  a  general 
flittin,  awa  a'thegither  frae  this  side  o'  the  kintra,  nane  o' 
the  neebors  ken  whare  ;  and  sae,  ye  see,  dial-stanes  get 
green,  for  there  are  nae  bairns'  hauns  to  pick  aff  the  moss, 
and  it's  no  muckle  that  the  Robin  Redbreast  taks  for  his 
nest,  or  the  Kitty- Wren.  It's  aften  been  a  mournfu'  thocht 
wi'  me,  that  o'  a'  the  dial-stanes  I  ever  saw,  stanin  in  a  sort 
o'  circle  in  the  middle  o'  a  garden,  or  in  a  nyeuck  o'  grun'  * 
that  might  ance  hae  been  a  garden,  just  as  you  gang  in  or 
out  o'  the  village,  or  in  a  kirkyard,  there  was  aye  something 
wrang  wi'  them,  either  wi'  the  finger  or  the  face,  sae  that 
Time  laughed  at  his  ain  altar,  and  gied  it  a  kick  in  the  by- 
gaun,  till  it  begood  to  hang  a'  to  the  tae  side,  like  a  neg- 
leckit  tombstane  ower  the  banes  o'  some  ane  or  ither  buried 
lang  afore  the  Covenant. — Isna  that  a  fiddle  on  the  brace- 
piece  ?  Let's  hawnle  f  her. — Ay,  just  like  a'  the  lave — ae 
string  wantin — and  something  or  ither  wrang  wi'  twa-three 
o'  the  pegs — sae  that  whan  ye  skrew  up,  they'll  no  haud  J 
the  grip.  Neertheless,  I'll  play  mysel  a  bit  tune.  Got,  she's 
no  an  ill  fiddle — but  some  folk  can  bring  music  out  o'  a 
boot-jack. — (Sings,  "  0  mother,  tell  the  la,ird  o't.") — I'm  no 
in  bad  vice  the  nicht — and  oh !  but  the  Saloon's  a  gran' 
ha'  for  singin !  Here's  your  health  and  sang,  sir.  Dog 
on't,  if  I  didna  believe  for  a  minute  that  yon  Image  was 
anither  Man !  I  dinna  a'thegither  just  like  this  room,  for 
it's  getting  unco  like  a  Pandemonium.  It  would  be  a  fear 
some  room  to  get  fou  in — for  then  you  would  sit  glowerin 
in  the  middle  o'  forty  fires,  and  yet  fear  that  you  were  nae 

•  NyeitcJc  o'  grun'— nook  of  ground.  •  f  Hawnle— handle, 

t  Hand— hold. 


214  A  Present  from  Russia. 

Salamander.  You  wud  be  frichtened  to  stir,  in  case  you 
either  walked  iutil  the  real  ribs,  or  gaed  crash  through  a 
lookin-glass,  thinkm't  the  trance.*  I'm  beginnin  to  get  a 
wee  dizzy — sae  let  me  sit  down  on  this  settee.  Oh !  wow, 
but  this  is  a  sonsy  sofa !  It  wad  do  brawly  for  a  honey 
moon. 

{Enter  MR.  AMBROSE  with  some  Reindeer  tongues.) 

Mr.  Ambrose.  A  present,  Mr.  Hogg,  from  the  Emperor  of 
Russia  to  Mr.  North.  The  Emperor,  you  remember,  sir, 
when  Duke  Nicholas,!  used  to  honor  Gabriel's  Road. — 
Asleep,  with  his  eyes  open !  \_Exit  retrogrediens. 

Shepherd.  Was  Awmrose  no  in  the  room  the  noo  ?  Pre 
serve  us  !  what  a  tot  o'  tongues  !  And  it'  me  that  used  to 
fin'  faut  wi'  Shakespeare  for  putting  long  soliloquies  into  the 
mouths  of  his  chief  characters  !  But  I'm  gettin  as  hoarse  as 
a  craw — and  had  better  ring  the  bell  for  a  jug.  Deevil  tak 
the  worsted  bell-rape — see  if  it  hasna  bracken  short  aff, 
leaving  the  ring  in  my  haun  !  Mercy  on  us,  whatten  a  feet 
o'  flunkeys  in  the  trance  ! 

(Door  flies  open — and  enter  TICKLER — NORTH, 
supported  by  MR.  AMBROSE.) 

Shepherd.  What  a  queer  couple  o'  auld  fallows,  a'  covered 
wi'  cranreuch  !  $  Is't  snawin,  sirs  ? 

Tickler.  Snowing,  my  dear  James ! — Sleeting,  hailing, 
raining,  driving,  and  blasting,  all  in  one  unexpected  coalition 
of  parties,  to  the  utter  discomfort  and  dismay  of  all  his 
Majesty's  loyal  subjects. 

Shepherd.  And  hae  you  walked  up,  like  twa  fules,  frae 
Bawhannan  Lodge,  in  sic  an  eerie  nicht,  knee-deep  in  mire, 
glaur,  and  sludge  ? 

•  Trance—  passage. 

t  The  late  Emperor  of  Russia  visited  Edinburgh  in  1816. 

$  Cranreuch — hoar-frost. 


"  Two  Bright  and  Aged  Snakes:'  215 

Tickler.  One  of  North's  coach-horses  is  sick,  and  the  other 
lame — and — 

Shepherd.  Catch  me  keepin  a  cotch.  It  costs  Mr.  North 
five  guineas  every  hurl — and  him  that's  getting  sae  narrow, 
too — but  Pride !  hech,  sirs,  Pride  gets  the  maister  o'  Avarice 
— and  he'll  no  condescend  to  hire  a  haickney.  Dinna  melt 
in  the  Saloon,  sirs — gang  in  til  the  trance,  and  cast  your 
outer  skins,  and  then  come  back  glitterin  like  twa  serpents 
as  you  are,  twa  Boa-Constrictors,  or  rather  Rattlesnakes,  wi' 
your  forked  tongues,  and  wee  red  piercin  een,  growin  aye 
mair  and  mair  venomous,  as  ye  begin  to  bask  and  beek  in  the 
hearth-heat,  and  turn  about  the  heads  o'  you  to  spy  whom 
you  may-  fasten  on,  lick  a'  ower  wi'  glue,  and  then  draw 
them  into  your  jaws  by  suction,  crashin  their  b!lnes  like  egg 
shells,  and  then  hissin  to  ane  anither  in  weel-pleased  fierce 
ness,  after  your  ain  natur,  which  mony  a  puir  tortirt  cretur 
has  kent  to  his  cost  to  be  without  pity  and  without  ruth — ye 
Sons  o'  Satan ! 

North.  Thank  ye,  my  dear  James,  for  all  your  kind  in 
quiries. — Quite  well,  except  being  even  deafer  than  usual, 
or — 

Shepherd.  Ne'er  mind,  sir  ;  I'll  mak  you  hear  on  the  deaf 
est  side  o'  your  head.  But  what's  he  fummlin  at  yonner  ?  Od, 
he's  just,  for  a'  the  warld,  like  a  wee  bit  corn-stack,  frosted 
and  pouthered  ower  wi'  rime.  Noo  Mr.  Awmrose  has  gotten 
him  out  o'  the  theekin, — and  oh  !  but  he  looks  genteel,  and 
like  a  verra  nobleman,  in  that  speck-and-span-new  blue  coat, 
wi'  big  yellow  buttons  ;  nor  wad  that  breast  ill  become  a  star. 
Reel  roun'  his  throne,  Mr.  Awmrose. 

[Mr.  AMBROSE  wheels  Mr.  NORTH  in  the  Patent  Chair  to 
the  off-door  side  of  the  Fire,  setting  his  Footstool,  and 
depositing  the  Crutch  in  its  own  niche,  leaning  on  the 
pedestal  of  Apollo. 


216  Tickler  in  the,  Dissecting-room. 

Tickler.  Heaven  and  earth !  James,  are  you  well,  my  dear 
friend  ? — you  seem  reduced  to  a  mere  shadow. 

Shepherd.  Reduced  to  a  mere  shadow  ! — I'm  thinkin,  sir, 
you'll  hae  been  mistakin  your  nain  figure  in  the  glass  for  me 
the  noo — 

North.  Thank  ye,  Mr.  Ambrose. — Family  all  well  ?  That's 
right — that's  right.  Where's  the  Shepherd  ?  Lord  bless  me, 
James,  are  you  ill  ? 

Shepherd.  Me  ill  ?  What  the  deevil's  to  mak  me  ill  ? — 
But  you're  baith  jokin  noo,  sirs. 

Tickler.  Pardon  my  weakness,  James,  but  I  had  a  very 
ugly  dream  about  you — and  your  appearance. 

Shepherd.  Ma  appearance  ?  What  the  deevil's  the  matter 
wi'  ma  appearance  ?  Mr.  North,  am  I  luckiu  ony  way  out  o' 
health  ? — (Aside) — Ay,  ay,  my  lads,  I  see  what  you're  ettlin 
at  noo — but  I'm  no  sae  saf t  and  simple's  I  look  like. — (Aloud) 
— You  had  an  ugly  dream,  Mr.  Tickler  ?— what  was't  about  ? 
Let's  hear't. 

Tickler.  That  you  were  dead,  James, — laid  out — coffined — 
biered — buried — superscribed — and — 

Shepherd.  Houkit  *  up  by  half-a-dizzen  resurrection-men — 
driven  by  nicht  in  a  gig  to  Embro',  and  selt  for  three  pounds 
ten  shillings  to  a  lecturin  surgeon  for  a  subject  o'  demonstra 
tion  afore  a  schule  o'  young  doctors  ;  and  after  that,  an  atomy 
in  Surgeons'  Ha'.  Do  ye  ken,  Mr.  Tickler,  that  I  wud  like 
gran'  to  see  you  disseckit  ?  That  is,  after  you  was  dead — for 
I'm  no  wishin  you  dead  yet,  although  you  plague  me  sairly 
sometimes ;  and  are  aye  try  in,  I  winna  say  wi'  what  success, 
to  be  witty  at  my  expense.  I  wish  you  a'  happiness,  sir,  and 
a  lang  life — but  I  howp  I  may  add  without  offence,  that  gin 
ye  was  fairly  and  bonny  feedy  dead — I  wud  like  to  see  the 
corp  disseckit,  no  on  a  public  table,  afore  hunuers  o'  glower- 

*  Houkit— dug. 


North  bequeaths  his  Skull.  217 

ing  gawpuses,  but  in  a  parlor  afore  a  few  chosen  peers,  sic 
as  Mr.  North  there,  and  O'Doherty,  and  A ;  *  who,  by  the 
way,  would  be  happy,  I  dinna  doubt,  to  perform  the  operation 
himsel,  and  I  could  answer  for  his  doin't  wi'  a  haun  at  ance 
firm  and  tender,  resolute  and  respectfu',  for  ae  man  o'  genius 
is  aye  kind  to  anither  on  a'  sic  occasions  ;  and  A  would  cut 
you  up,  sir,  as  delicately  as  you  were  his  ain  faither. 

Tickler.  Is  it  to  give  a  flavor  to  the  oysters,  James,  that 
you  talk  so  ?  Suppose  we  change  the  subject. 

Shepherd.  We  shall  leave  that  to  A,  sir.  There's  nae 
need  for  changin  the  subject  yet ;  besides,  didna  ye  introduced 
yoursel,  by  offerin  to  receet  your  ugly  dream  about  my  de 
cease  ?  But — 

North.  My  dear  James,  I  have  left  you,  b£  my  last  will 
and  testament,  my  Skull. 

Shepherd.  Oh  !  my  dear  sir,  but  I  take  that  verra,  verra 
kind.  I'll  hae't  siller-munted, — the  tap  o't — that  is,  the  organ 
o'  veneration,  which  in  you  is  enormous — sawn  aff  like  that 
o'  a  cocko-nit,  and  then  fastened  on  for  a  lid  by  a  hinge, — and 
I'll  keep  a'  ma  manuscrippsin't — and  also  that  wee  stereoteep 
Bible  you  gied  me  that  beautiful  Sunday  simmer  night  we 
spak  sae  seriously  about  religion,  when  the  sun  was  settin  sae 
gloriously,  and  the  profound  hush  o'  nature  seemed  o'  itsel  an 
assurance  o'  immortality.  Mr.  Tickler,  will  ye  no  leave  me 
your  skull  too,  as  weel's  the  cremona  that  I  ken's  in  a  codicil, 
to  staun  cheek-by-jowl  wi'  Mr.  North's,  on  the  tap  o'  my 
mahogany  leebrary  ? 

Tickler.     Be  it  so,  James — but  the  bequest  must  be  mutual. 

Shepherd.  I  hae  nae  objection — there's  my  thumb,  I'll  ne'er 
beguile  you.  Oh,  sir !  but  I  wad  look  unco  gash  f  on  a  bit 

*  D.  M.  Moir,  the  "  Delta  "  of  Blackwood's  Magazine,  was  an  eminent  medi 
cal  practitioner  at  Musselburgh,  near  Edinburgh.    He  died  in  1851. 
t  Unco  gash— uncommonly  sagacious. 


218  "  Alas,  poor  Yorick  !  " 

pedestal  in  the  parlor  b'  Southside,  when  you  were  enter- 
teenin  your  sma'  snug  pairties  wi'  anecdots  o'  the  Shepherd. 
There's  something  pleasant  in  the  thocht,  sir,  for  I'm  sure  ye 
wad  tell  nae  ill  o'  me — and  that  you  wud  every  Saturday 
nicht  wipe  the  dust  frae  my  skull  wi'  a  towel,  mutterin  per 
haps  at  a  time,  "  Alas,  poor  Yorick !  " 

Tickler.  James — you  affect  me — you  do  indeed — 

Shepherd.  Silly  fules,  noo,  were  they  to  owerhear  us  jockin 
and  jeerin  in  this  gate  about  ane  anither's  skulls,  wud  ca'  us 
Atheists,  and  deny  our  richt  to  Christian  burial.  But  what 
signifies  a  skull  ?  The  shell  of  the  flown  bird,  said  Simonides, 
a  pensive  poet  of  old — for  whose  sake  would  that  I  could  read 
Greek — though  I  fancy  there  are  o'  him  but  some  sma'  and 
uncertain  remains. 

North.  James,  many  a  merry  Christmas  to  us  all.  What  a  jug! 

Shepherd.  It's  an  instinck  wi'  me  noo,  makin  het  whisky 
toddy.  A'  the  time  o'  our  silly  discourse  about  our  skulls, 
was  I  steerin  about  the  liquid,  plumpin  in  the  bits  o'  sugar, 
and  garrin  the  green  bottle  gurgle — unconscious  o'  what  I 
was  about — yet,  as  ye  observe,  sir,  wi'  your  usual  sagacity, 
u  What  a  jug !  " 

Tickler.  There  is  no  such  school  of  temperance  as  Ambrose's 
in  the  world — a  skreed  *  in  any  room  of  his  house  clears  my 
head  for  a  month,  and  re-strings  my  stomach  to  such  a  pitch 
of  power,  that,  Mke  an  osti  ich,  I  can  digest  a  nail  or  a  cork 
screw. — I  scarcely  think,  James,  that  you  are  in  your  usual 
spirits  to-night.  Come,  be  brilliant. 

Shepherd.  Oh,  man,  Mr.  Tickler,  wha  wad  hae  expeckit 
sic  a  sumphish  speech  frae  you,  sir  ?  Wha  was  ever  brilliant 
at  a  biddin  ?  Bid  a  sleepin  fire  bleeze — wulPt  ?  Na.  But  ripe 
the  ribs,  and  then  gie  the  central  coal  a  smash  wi'  the  poker, 
and  lo  !  a  volcano  vomits  like  Etna  or  Vesuvius. 

*  A  skreed— a.  liberal  allowance  of  anything. 


Christmas  Melancholy.  219 

Tickler.  After  all,  my  dear  James,  I  believe  the  truth  to 
be,  that  Christmas  is  not  a  merry  season. 

Shepherd.  Aiblins  scaircely  sae  to  men  like  us,  that's  gettin 
raither  auld.  But  though  no  merry,  it  needna  be  melancholy 
— for  after  a',  death,  that  taks  awa  the  gude — a  freen  or  twa 
drappin  awa  ilka  year — is  no  so  very  terrible,  except  when  he 
comes  to  our  ain  fireside,  our  ain  bed,  or  our  ain  cradle — and, 
for  my  ain  part,  I  can  drink,  wi'  an  unpainfu'  tear,  or  without 
ony  tear  at  a',  to  the  memory  o'  them  I  loved  dearly,  uaething 
doubtin  that  Heaven  is  the  trystin-place  where  all  friends 
and  lovers  will  feenally  meet  at  last,  free  frae  a'  jealousies, 
and  heart-burnings,  and  sorrows,  and  angers — sae,  why  should 
our  Christmas  be  melancholy,  though  we  three  have  buried 
some  that  last  year  lauched,  and  sang,  and  danced  in  our 
presence,  and  because  of  our  presence,  and  looked  as  if  they 
had  been  destined  for  a  lang,  lang  life  ?  .  .  .  But  do  you  ken, 
in  spite  o'  a'  that,  I'm  just  desperate  fond  o'  Christmas 
minshed  pies.  Sirs — in  a  bonny  bleeze  o'  brandy,  burnin 
blue  as  snapdragon — I  can  devoor  a  dizzen. 

Tickler.  Christmas  geese  are  prime  birds,  James,  with 
onions  and  sage  sufficient,  and  each  mouthful  accompanied 
by  its  contingent  of  rich  red  apple-sauce. 

Shepherd.  A  guse  aye  gives  me  the  colic — yet  I  canna  help 
eatin't  for  a'  that — for  whan  there's  nae  sin  nor  iniquity,  it's 
richt  and  reasonable  to  purchase  pleasure  at  the  expense  o' 
pain.  I  like  to  eat  a'  sorts  o'  land  or  fresh-water  wild-fools — 
and  eke  the  eggs.  Pease-weeps'  *  eggs  is  capital  poached. 

Tickler.  James,  whether  do  you  like  eating  or  drinking 
best  ?  Is  hunger  or  thirst  the  preferable  appetite  ? 

Shepherd.  Why,  you  see,  I,  for  ane,  never  eat  but  when 
I'm  hungry — and  hunger's  soon  satisfied  if  you  hae  plenty 
o'  vittals.  Compare  that  wi'  drinkin  when  your  thursty — 

*  Pease-weep — lapwing. 


220  Hunger  or  Thirst  f 

either  clear  well-water,  or  sour-milk,  or  sma'  yill,  or  porter, 
or  speerits  half-and-half,  and  then  I  wad  say  that  eatin  and 
drinkin's  pretty  much  of  a  muchness — very  nearly  on  a  par, 
wi'  this  difference,  that  hunger  wi'  me's  never  sae  intense  as 
thurst.  I  never  was  sae  hungry  that  I  wad  hae  devoured  a 
bane  frae  the  gutter,  but  I  hae  often  been  sae  thursty,  on  the 
muirs,  that  I  hae  drank  black  moss-water  wi'  a  green  scum 
on't  without  scunnerin. 

North.  I  never  was  hungry  in  my  life. 

Shepherd.  That's  a  confounded  lee,  sir,  beggin  your  par 
don — 

North.  No  offence,  James — but  the  instant  I  begin  to  eat, 
my  appetite  is  felt  to  be  excellent. 

Shepherd.  Felt  and  seen  baith,  sir.  A  how-towdie's  a 
mere  laverock  to  you,  sir,  on  the  day  the  Magazine's  finished 
aff — and  Mr.  Awmrose  himsel  canna  help  lauchin  at  the  re 
lays  o*  het  beef-stakes  that  ye  keep  yokin  to,  wi'  pickled  in- 
gans  or  shallotts,  and  spoonfu's  o'  Dickson's  mustard,  that 
wad  be  aneuch  to  blin'  a  Lynx. 

Tickler.  I  have  lost  my  appetite — 

Shepherd.  I  howp  nae  puir  man  'ill  find  it,  now  that  wages 
is  low  and  wark  scarce  ; — but  drinkin,  you  see,  Mr.  North, 
has  this  great  advantage  over  eatin,  that  ye  may  drink  a* 
nicht  lang  without  being  thursty — tummler  after  tummler — 
jug  after  jug — bowl  after  bowl — as  lang's  you're  no  sick — 
and  you're  better  worth  sittin  wi'  at  ten  than  at  aucht,  and 
at  twal  than  at  ten,  and  during  the  sma'  hours  you're  just 
intolerable  good  company — scarcely  bearable  at  a',  ane  waxes 
sae  truly  wutty  and  out  o'  a'  measure  deevertin  ;  whereas  I'll 
defy  ony  man,  the  best  natural  and  acquired  glutton  that 
ever  was  born  and  bred  at  the  feet  o'  a  father  that  gaed  aff 
at  a  city  feast,  wi'  a  gob  o'  green  fat  o'  turtle  half-way  down 
his  gullet,  in  an  apoplexy,  to  carry  on  the  eatin  wi1  ony 


The  Shepherd's  Constitution.  221 

spunk  or  speerit  after  three  or  four  courses,  forbye  toasted 
cheese,  and  roasted  chestnuts,  and  a  dessert  o'  filberts,  prunes, 
awmons,  and  raisins,  ginger-frute,  guava  jeelly,  and  ither 
Wast  Indian  preserves.  The  cretur  coups  ower  *  comatose. 
But  only  tak  tent  |  no  to  roar  ower  loud  and  lang  in  speakin 
or  singin,  and  you  may  drink  awa  at  the  Glenlivet  till  past 
midnight,  and  weel  on  to  the  morning  oj  the  day  after  to 
morrow. 

Tickler.  Next  to  the  British,  Hogg,  I  know  no  such  consti 
tution  as  yours — so  fine  a  balance  of  powers.  I  daresay  you 
never  had  an  hour's  serious  illness  in  your  life. 

Shepherd.  That's  a"  you  ken — and  the  observe  comes  weel 
frae  you  that  began  the  nicht  wi'  giein  the  club  my  death 
like  prognosis. 

Tickler.  Prognosis  ? 

Shepherd.  Sirntoms  like.  This  back-end  $  I  had  a'  three 
at  ance,  the  Tick  Dollaroose,  the  Angeena  Pectoris,  and  the 
Jaundice. 

North.   Tames — flames — James  ! 

Tickler.  Hogg — Hogg — Hogg ! 

Shepherd.  I  never  fan'  ony  pain  like  the  Tick  Dollaroose. 
Ane's  no  accustomed  to  a  pain  in  the  face.  For  the  tooth 
ache's  in  the  inside  o'  the  mouth,  no  in  the  face  ;  and  you've 
nae  idea  hoo  sensitive's  the  face.  Cheeks  are  a'  fu'  o'  nerves 
— and  the  Tick  attacks  the  haill  bunch  o'  them,  screwing 

o 

them  up  to  sic  a  pitch  o'  tension  that  you  canna  help  screechirv 
out,  like  a  thousan'  ools,  and  clappin  the  pawms  o'  your  hauns 
to  your  distrackit  chafts,  and  rowin  yoursel  on  the  floor  on 
your  groof,  §  wi'  your  hair  on  end,  and  your  een  on  fire,  and 
a  general  muscular  convulsion  in  a*  your  sinnies,  sae  piercin, 
and  searchin,  and  scrutinisin,  and  diggin,  and  houkin,  and 

*  Coups  ower— tumbles  over.  t  Tak  tent— take  care, 

t  Back-end— close  of  the  year.  §  Groof— belly. 


222  Tic  Douloureux. 

tearin  is  the  pangfu'  pain  that  keeps  eatin  awa  and  manglin 
the  nerves  o'  your  human  face  divine.  Draps  o'  sweat,  as 
big  as  beads  for  the  neck  or  arms  o'  a  lassie,  are  pourin  doun 
to  the  verra  floor,  so  that  the  folk  that  hears  you  roarin  thinks 
you're  greetin,  and  you're  aye  afterwards  considered  a  bairnly 
chiel  through  the  haill  kintra.  In  ane  o'  the  sudden  fits  I 
gruppit  sic  haud  o'  a  grape  that  I  was  helpin  our  Shusey  * 
to  muck  the  byre  wi'  that  it  withered  in  my  fingers  like  a 
frush  |  saugh-wand  \ — and  'would  hae  been  the  same  had  it 
been  a  bar  o'  airn.  Only  think  o'  the  Tick  Dollaroose  in  a 
man's  face  continuing  to  a'  eternity  ! 

North.  Or  even  for  a  few  million  ages — 

Shepherd.  Angeena  Pectoris  is  even  waur,  if  waur  may  be, 
than  the  Tick  Dollaroose.  Some  say  it's  an  ossified  condition 
o'  the  coronary  arteries  o'  the  heart ;  but  that'  no  necessarily 
true — for  there's  nae  ossification  o'  these  arterial  branches  o 
my  heart.  But  oh  !  sirs,  the  fit's  deadly,  and  maist  like  till 
death.  A'  at  ance,  especially  if  you  be  walkin  up-hill,  it 
comes  on  you  like  the  shadow  o'  a  thunder-cloud  ower  smilin 
natur,  silencin  a'  the  singin  birds,  as  if  it  threatened  earth 
quake, — and  you  canna  doubt  that  your  last  hour  is  come, 
and  that  your  sowl  is  about  to  be  demanded  of  you  by  its 
Maker.  However  aften  you  may  have  it,  you  aye  feel  and 
believe  that  it  is,  this  time — death.  It  is  a  sort  o'  swoon, 
without  loss  o'  sense — a  dwawm,  in  which  there  still  is  con 
sciousness — a  stoppage  o'  a'  the  animal  functions,  even  o' 
breathin  itsel,  which,  if  I'm  no  mista'en,  is  the  meaning  o'  a 
syncope — and  a'  the  while  something  is  rug-ruggin  §  at  the 
heart  itsel,  something  cauld  and  ponderous,  amist  like  the 
forefinger  and  thoom  o'  a  heavy  haun — the  haun  o'  an  evil 
speerit ;  and  then  you  expeck  that  your  heart  is  to  rin  doun, 

*  Shusen— Susan.  f  Frush— brittle. 

t  Sauf/h-wand— willow-wand.  §  Rug-ruggin— tear-tearing, 


Angina  Pectoris.  223 

just  like  a  clock,  wi'  a  dull  cloggy  noise,  or  rumble  like  that 
o'  disarranged  machinery,  and  then  to  beat,  to  tick  nae  mair  ! 
The  collapse  is  dreadfu'.  Ay,  Mr.  North,  collapse  is  the 
word. 

North.  Consult  Uvvins  on  Indigestion,  James — the  best 
medical  work  I  have  read  for  years,  of  a  popular  yet  scientific 
character. 

Shepherd.  Noo  for  the  Jaundice.  The  Angeena  Pectoris, 
the  Tick  Dollaroose,  are  intermittent — "  like  angel  visits,  few 
and  far  between  " — but  the  jaundice  lasts  for  weeks,  when  it 
is  gatherin  or  brewin  in  the  system — for  weeks  at  its  yellowest 
height, — and  for  weeks  as  the  disease  is  ebbin  in  the  blood — 
a- disease,  if  I'm  no  sair  mista'en,  o'  the  liver. 

North.  An  obstructed  condition  of  the  duodenum,  James — 

Shepherd.  The  mental  depression  o'  the  sowl  in  the  jaundice 
is  most  truly  dretidfu'.  It  would  hae  sunk  Samson  on  the 
morning  o'  the  day  that  he  bore  aff  on  his  back  the  gates  o' 
Gaza. 

Tickler.  Tell  us  all  about  it,  James. 

Shepherd.  You  begin  to  hate  and  be  sick  o'  things  that  used 
to  be  maist  delightfu' — sic  as  the  sky,  and  streams,  and  hills, 
and  the  ee  and  voice,  and  haun  and  breast  o'  woman.  You 
dauner  about  the  doors,  dour  and  dowie,  and  are  seen  sittin 
in  nyeucks  and  corners,  whare  there's  little  licht,  no  mindin 
the  cobwabs,  or  the  spiders  themselves  drappin  doun  amang 
your  unkempt  hair.  You  hae  nae  appeteet ;  and  if  by  ony 
chance  you  think  you  could  tak  a  mouthfu'  o'  a  particular 
dish,  you  splutter't  out  again,  as  if  it  were  bitter  ashes.  You 
canna  say  that  you  are  unco  ill  either,  but  just  a  wee  sickish 
— tongue  furry,  as  if  you  had  been  licking  a  muff  or  a 
mawkin — and  you  observe,  frae  folk  stannin  weel  back  when 
you  happen  to  speak  to  them — which  is  no  aften — that  your 
breath's  bad,  though  a  week  before  it  was  as  caller  as  clover. 


224  Jaundice. 

You  snore  mair  than  you  sleep — and  dream  wi'youreen  open 
— ugly,  confused,  mean,  stupid,  unimaginative  dreams,  like 
those  of  a  drunk  dunce  imitatin  a  Noctes — and  that's  aboot 
the  warst  thing  o'  a*  the  complaint,  that  you're  ashamed  o* 
yoursel,  and  begin  to  fear  that  you're  no  the  man  you  ance 
thocht  yoursel,  when  in  health  shootin  groose  on  the  hills,  or 
listerin  sawmon. 

North.  The  jaundice  that,  James,  of  a  man  of  genius — of 
the  author  of  the  Queens  Wake. 

Shepherd.  Wad  ye  believe  it,  sir,  that  I  was  ashamed  of 
"  Kilmeny  "  ?  A'  the  poems  I  ever  writ  seemed  trash — 
rubbish — fuilzie  ;  and  as  for  my  prose — even  my  verra  articles 
in  Maga — "  Shepherd's  Calendar"  and  a' — waxed  havers — 
like  something  in  the  Metropolitan  Quarterly  Magazine,  the 
stupidest  o'  a'  created  periodicals,  and  now  deader  than  a'  the 
nails  in  Nebuchadnezzar's  coffin. 

North.  The  disease  must  have  been  at  its  climax  then,  my 
dear  James. 

Shepherd.  Na,  na,  na  ;  it  was  far  frae  the  cleemax.  I  tuk 
to  the  bed,  and  never  luckit  out  frae  the  coortains  for  a  fort 
night — gettin  glummier  and  glummier  in  sense  and  sowl, 
heart,  mind,  body,  and  estate — eating  little  or  naething,  and 
— wad  ye  believe  it  ? — sick,  and  like  to  scunner  at  the  very 
name  o'  whusky. 

North.  Thank  God,  I  knew  nothing  of  all  this,  James.  I 
could  not  have  borne  the  thought,  much  less  the  sight,  of  such 
total  prostration,  or  rather  perversion  of  your  understanding. 

Shepherd.  Wearied  and  worn  out  wi'  lyin  in  the  bed,  I  got 
up  wi'  some  sma*  assistance  frae  wee  Jamie,  God  bless  him ! 
and  telt  them  to  open  the  shutters.  What  a  sicht !  A'  faces 
as  yellow's  yellow  lilies,  like  the  parchment  o'  an  auld  drum 
head  !  Ghastly  were  they,  ane  and  a',  when  they  leuch  ;*  yet 

*  Leuch— laughed. 


Progress  of  the  Disease.  225 

seemed  insensible  o'  their  corp-like  hue — I  mean,  a  corp  that 
has  died  o'  some  unnatural  disease,  and  been  keepit  ower  lang 
aboon  grun'  in  close  weather,  the  carpenter  having  gotten 
drunk,  and  botched  the  coffin.  I  ca'd  for  the  glass — and  my 
ain  face  was  the  warst  o'  the  haill  set.  Whites  o'  een !  They 
were  the  color  o'  dandelions,  or  yellow-yoldrins.*!  was  feared 
to  wash  my  face,  lest  the  water  grew  ochre.  That  the  Jaundice 
was  in  the  house  was  plain  ;  but  whether  it  was  me  only  that 
had  it,  or  a'  the  rest  likewise,  was  mair  than  I  could  tell. 
That  the  yellow  I  saw  wasna  in  them,  but  in  me,  was  hard  to 
believe,  when  I  luckit  on  them  ;  yet  I  thochton  green  specks, 
and  the  stained  wundows  in  Windermere  Station,  and  reasoned 
wi'  mysel  that  the  discoloration  must  be  in  my  lens,  or  pupil, 
or  optic  nerve,  or  apple,  or  ba'  o'  the  ee  ;  and  that  I,  James 
Hogg,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  was  The  Jaundice. 

Tickler.  Your  portrait,  colored  from  nature,  James,  would 
have  been  inestimable  in  after  ages,  and  given  rise  to  much 
argument  among  the  learned  about  your  origin — the  country 
of  your  birth.  You  must  have  looked  cousin-german  to  the 
Green  Man  and  Still. 

Shepherd.  I  stoitered  to  the  door,  and,  just  as  I  feared,  the 
Yarrow  was  as  yellow  as  a  rotten  egg — a'  the  holms  the  color 
o'  a  Cockney's  play-going  gloves — the  skies  like  the  dirty 
ochre  wa's  o'  a  change-house — the  cluds  like  buckskin  breeks 
— and  the  sun,  the  michty  sun  himsel,  wha  lends  the  rainbow 
its  hues,  and  is  never  the  poorer,  looked  at  me  wi'  a  discon 
solate  aspeck,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  James,  James,  is  it  thou 
or  I  that  has  the  Jaundice  ?  " 

Tickler.  Better  than  the  best  bits  of  Abernethy  f  in  the 
Lancet,  North. 

*  Yellow-yoldrln— yellow-hammer. 

t  This  eminent  practitioner,  celebrated  no  less  for  his  eccentricity  of 
manner  than  for  his  medical  skill,  was  born  in  1764,  and  died  in  1831.  He 
was  the  author  of  Surgical  Observations.  Physiological  Essays,  etc. 


226  The  Shepherd's  Recovery. 

Shepherd.  Just  as  I  was  gaun  to  answer  the  sun,  the  Tick 
Dollaroose  attacked  baith  o'  ray  cheeks — a'  my  face,  lips,  chin, 
nose,  brow,  lugs,  and  crown  and  back  o'  my  head, — the  An- 
geena  Pectoris  brought  on  the  Heart-Collapse — and  there  the 
three,  the  Tick,  the  Angeena,  and  the  Jaundice,  a'  fell  on  me 
at  ance,  like  three  English,  Scotch,  and  Eerish  regiments 
stormin  a  fort,  and  slaughterin  their  way  wi'  the  beggonet  on 
to  the  citadel 

N  rth.  That  you  are  alive  at  this  blessed  hour,  my  dearest 
James,  almost  exceeds  belief,  and  I  begin  to  suspect  that  you 
are  not  flesh  and  blood — a  mere  Appearance. 

Shepherd.  Na,  faith,  a'm  a  reality  ;  an  Appearance  is  apuir 
haun  at  a  jug.  Yet,  sir,  the  recovery  was  weel  worth  a'  I 
paid  for  it  in  sufferins.  The  first  time  I  went  out  to  the 
knowe  yonner,  aboon  the  garden,  and  gazed  and  glowered, 
and  better  gazed  and  glowered,  on  the  heavens,  the  earth, 
and  the  air,  the  three  bein  blent  thegither  to  mak  up  that 
mysterious  thing — a  Day  o'  Glory — I  thocht  that  my  youth, 
like  that  o'  the  sun-staring  eagle,  had  been  renewed,  and  that  I 
was  ance  mair  in  the  verra  middle  o'  the  untamed  licht  and 
music  o'  this  life,  whan  a'  is  fancy  and  imagination,  and 
friendship  and  love,  and  howp, — oh,  howp,  sir,  howp,  worth 
a'  the  ither  blisses  ever  sent  frae  Heaven,  like  a  shower  o' 
sunbeams,  for  it  canna  be  darkenit,  far  less  put  out  by  the 
mirkest  midnight  o'  meesery,  but  keeps  shinin  on  like  a  star, 
or  rather  like  the  moon  hersel — a  spiritual  moon,  sir,  that  "  13 
never  hid  in  vacant  interlunar  cave." 

Tickler.  Mixed  metaphors  these,  James. 

Shepherd.  Nane  the  waur  o'  that,  Timothy — I  felt  about 
ane-and-twunty — and  oh,  what  an  angelical  being  was  a  lassie 
then  comin  wadin  through  the  ford  !  At  every  step  she  took, 
after  launin  wr  her  white  feet,  havin  letten  doun  fa'  her 
cloudlike  claes  wi'  a  blush,  as  she  keepit  lookin  roun'  and 


Literary  Men  in  the  Country.  227 

roun'  for  a  whyleock,  to  see  gin  ony  ee  had  been  on  her,  as 
her  limbs  came  silvery  in  through  the  water — 

North.  The  Ladies,  James,  in  a  bumper. 

Shepherd.  The  leddies. — A  track  o'  flowers  keepit  length- 
enin  alang  the  greensward  as  she  walked  awa',  at  last,  quite 
out  o'  sicht. 

Tickler.  And  this  you  call  recovering  from  the  Tic-Do  u- 
loureux,  the  Angina  Pectoris,  and  the  Jaundice,  James  ? 
[Enter  MR.  AMBROSE,  with  copper-kettle  No.  /] 


North.  Who  rung  ? 


Ambrose.  I  have  taken  note  of  the  time  of  the  last  foui 
jugs,  sir,  and  have  found  that  each  jug  gains  ten  minutes  on 
its  predecessor — so  ventured — 

Shepherd.  Oh,  Mr.  Ambrose,  but  you  wad  be  a  gran* 
observer  o'  the  motions  o'  the  heavenly  bodies  in  an  Astro 
nomical  Observatory  ! — The  jug's  this  moment  dead.  There 
— in  wi'  a'  the  sugar,  and  a'  the  whusky, — fill  up,  Awmrose, 
fill  up.  That  stroop's  *^  gran'  pourer,  and  you're  a  prime 
experimenter  in  hydrostatics. 

[Exit  MR.  AMBROSE,  smurrans.] 

North.  A  mere  literary  man,  James,  is  a  contemptible 
creature.  Indeed,  I  often  wish  that  I  had  flourished  before 
the  invention  of  printing  or  even  of  writing.  What  think 
you,  James,  of  a  Noctes  in  hieroglyphics  ? 

Shepherd.  I  scarcely  ken ;  but  I  think  ane  wadna  look 
amiss  in  the  Chinese.  Wi'  respeck  to  mere  literary  men,  oh 
dear  me,  sir  !  hoo  T  do  gauntt  when  they  come  out  to  Mount 
Benger !  They  canna  shute,  they  canna  fish,  they  canna 
loup,  they  canna  warsle,  they  canna  soom,  they  canna  put 
the  stane,  they  canna  fling  the  hammer,  they  canna  even 
drive  a  gig,  they  canna  kiss  a  lassie  in  an  aff-haun  and 
pleasant  manner,  without  off  en  din  her  feelins,  as  through  the 

*  Stroop — spout.  t  Gaunt — yawn 


228  North  in  his  Dotage. 

dews  she  "  comes  wadin  all  alane ;"  and  what's  perhaps  the 
maist  coutemptible  o'  a',  they  canna,  to  ony  effeck,  drink 
whusky.  Ae  glass  o'  pure  speerits  on  the  hill  afore  breakfast 
wad  gie  them  a  sick  headache  ;  and  after  denner,  although 
the  creturs  hae  nae  objections  to  the  jug,  oh,  but  their  heads 
are  wake,1*  wake — before  the  fire  has  got  sun-bricht,  they  are 
lauchin-fou — you  then  fin'  them  out  to  be  rejected  contribu 
tors  to  BLackwood ;  and  you  hear  that  they're  Whigs  frae 
their  wee,  sharp,  shrill,  intermittin,  dissatisfied,  and  rather 
disgustin  snore,  like  a  souii'  ane  aften  hears  at  nicht  in  moors 
and  mosses,  but  whence  proceedin  ane  knows  not,  except  it 
be  frae  some  wild-foul  distressed  in  sleep  by  a  stamach  fu'  o' 
slug-worms  mixed  wi'  mire — for  he  aiblins  leeves  by  suction. 
Where's  Mr.  Tickler  ? 

North.  I  saw  him  slip  away  a  little  ago— just  as  he  had 
cleared  his  boards — 

Shepherd.  I  never  missed  him  till  the  noo. 

North.  How  delightful  for  a  town-talk  teazed  poor  old  man, 
like  me,  to  take  refuge,  for  a  month  or  so,  in  a  deeper  solitude 
even  than  Buchanan  Lodge — the  House  at  the  head  of  the 
Glen,  which,  know  it  ever  so  well,  you  still  have  to  search  for 
among  so  many  knolls,  some  quite  bare,  some  with  a  birk  or 
two,  and  some  of  them  each  in  itself  a  grove  or  wood, — self- 
sown  all  the  trees,  brushwood,  coppice,  and  standards. 

Shepherd.  You're  getting  desperate  descriptive  in  your 
dotage,  sir — dinna  froon — there's  nae  dishonor  in  dotage, 
when  nature's  its  object.  The  aulder  we  grow,  our  love  for 
her  gets  tenderer  and  mair  tender,  for  this  thocht  aften 
comes  across  our  heart,  '*  In  the  bosom  o'  this  bonny  green 
earth,  in  how  few  years — shall  I  be  laid — dust  restored  to 
dust !  "  That's  a'  I  mean  by  dotage.  .  .  .  What  are  ye 
hummin  at,  sir.  You're  no  gaun  to  sing  ? 

*  Wake— weak. 


North  as  a  Vocalist.  229 

(NORTH  sings.) 

Why  does  the  sun  shine  on  me, 
When  its  light  I  hate  to  see  ? 
Fain  I'd  lay  me  down  and  dee, 
For  o'  life  I'm  weary  ! 

Oh,  'tis  no  thy  frown  I  fear — 
'Tis  thy  smile  I  canna  bear — 
'  Tis  thy  smile  my  heart  does  tear,— 
When  thou  tiiest  to  cheer  me. 

Ladies  fair  hae  smiled  on  me— 
A^  their  smiles  nae  joy  could  gie— 
Never  lo'ed  I  ane  but  thee, 
And  I  lo'e  thee  dearly  1 

On  the  sea  the  moonbeams  play 
Sae  they'll  shine  when  I'm  away — 
Happy  then  thou'lt  be,  and  gay, 
When  I  wander  dreary  ! 

Shepherd.  Some  auld  fragmentary  strain,  remindin  him, 
nae  doubt,  o'  joys  and  sorrows  lang  ago  !  He  has  a  pathetic 
vice — but  sing  what  tune  he  may,  it  still  slides  awa  into 
"  Stroud  Water." 

North.  Oh,  James  !  a  dream  of  the  olden  time — 

Shepherd.  Huts  !  huts  !  I  wush  you  maunna  be  gettin 
rather  a  wee  fuddled,  sir — hafflins  fou.  Preserve  me  !  are  ye 
greetin  ?  The  whusky's  maist  terrible  strong — and  I  suspect 
has  never  been  chrissened.  It's  time  we  be  aff !  Oh  !  what 
some  o'  them  he  has  knouted  wad  gie  to  see  him  in  this 
condition  !  But  there's  the  wheels  o'  the  cotch.  Or  is't  a 
fire-engine  ? 

(Enter  AMBROSE,  to  announce  the  arrived  of  the  coach.) 

Dinna  look  at  him,  Mr.  Ambrose — he's  gotten  the  toothache 
— and  likewise  some  ingan  in  his  een.  This  is  aye  the  way 
wi'  him  noo, — he  fa's  aff  a'  on  a  sudden — and  begins  greetin 
it  naething,  or  at  things  that's  rather  amusin  as  itherwise. 


230  The  Shepherd  consoles  North. 

There's  mony  thousan'  ways  o'  gettin  fou — and  I  ken  nae 
mair  philosophical  employment  than,  in  sic  cityations,  the 
study  o'  the  varieties  o'  human  character. 

North.  Son  James — 

Shepherd.  Pardon,  Father — 'twas  but  a  jeest.  I've  kent 
you  noo  the  better  pairt  o'  twunty  years — and  never  saw  I 
thae  bricht  een — that  bricht  brain  obscured, — for  wi'  a'  our 
daffin — our  weel-timed  daffin — our  dulce  est  desipere  in  loco 
— that's  Latin,  you  ken — we  return  to  our  hame,  or  our 
lodgings,  as  sober  as  Quakers — and  as  peace fu',  too — well- 
wishers,  ane  and  a',  to  the  haill  human  race — even  the  verra 
Wheegs. 

North.  Sometimes,  my  dear  Shepherd,  my  life  from 
eighteen  to  twenty-four  is  an  utter  blank,  like  a  moonless 
midnight — at  other  times,  oh  !  what  a  refulgent  day  !  Had 
you  known  me  then,  James,  you  would — 

Shepherd.  No  hae  liked  you  half  as  weel's  I  do  noo — for 
then,  though  you  was  doubtless  tall  and  straucht  as  a  tree, 
and  able  and  willin  baith  to  fecht  man,  dowg,  or  deevil,  wi' 
een,  tongue,  feet,  or  hauns,  yet,  as  doubtless,  you  was 
prouder  nor  Lucifer.  But  noo  that  you're  bent  doun  no  that 
muckle,  just  a  wee,  and  your  "  lyart  haffits  wearing  thin 
and  bare,"  sae  pleesant,  sae  cheerfu',  sae  fu'  o'  allooances  for 
the  fauts  and  frailties  o'  your  fellow-creturs,  provided  only 
they  proceed  na  frae  a  bad  heart — it's  just  perfeckly  im 
possible  no  to  love  the  wise,  merry  auld  man — 

North.  James,  I  wish  to  consult  you  and  Mr.  Ambrose 
about  the  propriety  and  prudence  of  my  marrying — 

Shepherd.  Never  heed  ye  propriety  and  prudence,  sir,  i  i 
mairrying,  ony  mair  than  ither  folk.  Mairry  her,  sir — 
mairry  her — and  I'll  be  godfather — for  the  predestined 
mither  o'  him  will  be  an  Episcopaulian — to  wee  Christopher. 
Let  us  off  to  Southside — and  sup  with  Tickler. 


Off  to  Southside.  231 

— .for  three  voices. 

Fall  de  rail  de, 
Fall,  lall,  lall  de, 
Fall  de  lall  de, 
Fall,  fell  le,  &c. 

[Exeunt  ambo  et  AMBROSE. 


XVI. 

IN  WHICH,  AFTER  NORTH  IS  HANGED  AND  DRO  WNED 

IN  A  DREAM,  THE  SHEPHERD  IS  TEMPTED 

AND  FALLS. 

Scene, — Large  Dining-room. —  Time  uncertain. — NOKTH  dis~ 
covered  sitting  upright  in  his  easy-chair,  with  arms  akimbo 
on  his  crutch,  asleep. 

Enter  the  SHEPHERD  and  Mr.  AMBROSE. 

Shepherd.  Lord  safe  us  !  only  look  at  him  sitting  asleep. 
What'n  a  face ! — Dinna  leave  the  parlor,  Mr.  Awmrose,  for 
it  would  be  fearsome  to  be  alane  wi'  the  Vision. 

Ambrose.  The  heat  of  the  fire  has  overcome  the  dear  old 
gentleman — but  he  will  soon  awake  ;  and  may  I  make  so 
bold,  Mr.  Hogg,  as  to  request  that  you  do  not  disturb — 

Shepherd.  What !  Wad  ye  be  for  my  takin  aff  my  shoon, 
and  glidin  ower  the  Turkey  carpet  on  my  stockin  soles,  like 
a  pard  or  panther  on  the  Libyan  sands  ? 

Ambrose  (suaviter  in  modo).  I  beg  pardon,  sir,  but  you  have 
got  on  your  top-boots  *  this  evening. 

Shepherd.  Eh  !  sae  I  hae.  And  trying  to  rug  them  aff,  tae 
an'  heel,  aneath  the  fit  o'  a  chair,  wad  be  sure  to  wauken  him 
wi'  ane  o'  thae  froons  o'  his,  aneuch  to  daunt  the  deevil. 

Ambrose.     I  never  saw  Mr.  North  frown,  Mr.  Hogg,  since 

*  Top-boots,  at  this  period  not  uncommon,  were  a  favorite  attire  of  the 
Shepherd. 
232 


North  asleep.  233 

we  came  to  Picardy.     I  hope,  sir,  you  think  him  in  his  usual 
health  ? 

Shepherd.  That's  a  gude  ane,  Awmrose.  You  think  him 
near  his  latter  end,  'cause  he's  gien  up  that  hellish  froon  that 
formerly  used  sae  aften  to  make  his  face  frichtsome  ?  Ye 
ne'er  saw  him  froon  sin'  ye  cam  to  Picardy  ? — Look  there- 
only  look  at  the  cretur's  face — 

A  darkness  comes  across  it,  like  a  squall 
Blackening  the  sea. 

Ambrose.  I  fear  he  suffers  some  inward  qualm,  sir.  His 
,  stomach,  I  fear,  sir,  is  out  of  order. 

Shepherd.  His  stamach  is  ne'er  out  o'  order.  It's  an 
ingine  that  aye  works  sweetly.  But  what  think  you,  Mr. 
Awmrose,  o'  a  quawm  o'  conscience  ? 

Ambrose.  Mr.  North  never,  in  all  his  life,  I  am  sure,  so 
much  as  injured  a  fly.  Oh!  dear  me!  he  must  be  in  very 
great  pain. 

Shepherd. — 

So  frooned  he  ance,  when  in  an  angry  parle 
He  smote  the  sliding  Pollock  on  the  ice. 

Ambrose.  You  allude,  sir,  to  that  day  at  the  curling  on 
Duddingston  Loch.  But  you  must  allow,  Mr.  Hogg,  that  the 
brute  of  a  carter  deserved  the  crutch.  It  was  pretty  to  see 
the  old  gentleman  knock  him  down.  The  crack  on  the  ice 
made  by  the  carter's  skull  was  like  a  star,  sir. 

Shepherd.  The  clud's  blawn  aff — and  noo  his  countenance 
is  pale  and  pensive,  and  no  without  a  kind  o'  reverend  beauty, 
no  very  consistent  wi'  his  waukin  character.  But  the  faces 
o'  the  most  ferocious  are  a'  placid  in  sleep  and  in  death.  That 
is  an  impressive  fizziological  and  sykological  fack. 

Ambrose.  How  can  you  utter  the  word  death  in  relation 
to  him,  Mr.  Hogg  ?  Were  he  dead,  the  whole  world  might 
shut  up  shop. 


234  Portrait  of  North. 

Shepherd.  Na,  na.  Ye  micht,  but  no  the  warld.  There 
never  leeved  a  man  the  warld  missed,  ony  mair  than  a  great, 
green,  spreading  simmer  tree  misses  a  leaf  that  fa's  doun  on 
the  moss  aneath  its  shadow. 

Ambrose.     Were  you  looking  round  for  something,  sir  ? 

Shepherd.  Ay  ;  gie  me  that  cork  aff  yon  table — I'll  burn't 
on  the  fire,  and  then  blacken  his  face  wi'  coom. 

Ambrose  (placing  himself  in  an  imposing  attitude  between 
NORTH  and  the  SHEPHERD).  Then  it  must  be  through  my 
body,  sir.  Mr.  Hogg,  I  am  always  proud  and  happy  to  see 
you  in  my  house  ;  but  the  mere  idea  of  such  an  outrage — 
such  sacrilege — horrifies  me ;  the  roof  would  fall  down — the* 
whole  land — 

Shepherd.  Tuts,  man,  I'm  only  jokin.  Oh !  but  he  wad 
mak  a  fine  pictur !  I  wish  John  Watson  Gordon  were  but 
here  to  pent  his  face  in  iles.  What  a  mass  o'  forehead !  an 
inch  atween  every  wrinkle,  noo  scarcely  visible  in  the  calm 
o'  sleep !  Frae  eebree  to  croon  o'  the  head  a  lofty  mountain 
o'  snaw — a  verra  Benledi — wi'  rich  mineral  ore  aneath  the 
surface,  within  the  bowels  o'  the  skull,  copper,  silver,  and  gold ! 
Then  what  a  nose  !  Like  a  bridge,  along  which  might  be  driven 
cart-loads  o'  intellect ; — neither  Roman  nor  Grecian,  hookit 
nor  cockit,  a  wee  thocht  inclined  to  the  ae  side,  the  pint  being 
a  pairt  and  pendicle  o'  the  whole,  an  object  in  itsel,  but  at  the 
same  time  finely  smoothed  aff  and  on  intil  the  featur ;  while 
his  nostrils,  small  and  red,  look  as  they  would  emit  fire,  and 
had  the  scent  o'  a  jowler  or  a  vultur. 

Ambrose.     There  never  were  such  eyes  in  a  human  head — 

Shepherd.  I  like  to  see  them  sometimes  shut.  The  instant 
Mr.  North  leaves  the  room,  after  denner  or  sooper,  it's  the 
same  thing  as  if  he  had  carried  aff  wi'  him  twa  o'  the  fowre 
cawnles. 

Ambrose.     I  have  often  felt  that,  sir, — exactly  that, — but 


Poaching  on  Hogg's  Preserves.  235 

never  could  express  it.  If  at  any  time  he  falls  asleep,  it  is 
just  as  if  the  waiter  or  myself  had  snuffed  out — 

Shepherd.  Let  my  image  alane,  Mr.  Awmrose,  and  dinna 
ride  it  to  death — double.  But  what  I  admire  maist  o'  a'  in 
the  face  o'  him,  is  the  auld  man's  mouth.  There's  a  warld's 
difference,  Mr.  Awmrose,  atween  a  lang  mouth  and  a  wide  ane. 

Ambrose.  There  is,  Mr.  Hogg,  there  is — they  are  two 
different  mouths  entirely.  I  have  often  felt  that,  but  could 
not  express  it — 

Shepherd.  Mr.  Awmrose,  you're  a  person  that  taks  notice 
o'  a  hantle  o'  things — and  there  canna  be  a  stronger  proof,  or 
a  better  illustration,  of  the  effeck  o'  the  conversation  o'  a  man 
o'  genius  like  me,  than  its  thus  seeming  to  express  former 
feelings  and  fancies  of  the  awditor — whereas  the  truth  is, 
that  it  disna  wauken  them  for  the  second  time,  but  com 
municates  them  for  the  first — for  believe  me,  that  the  idea 
o'  the  cawnles,  and  eke  o'  the  difference  wi'  a  distinction 
atween  wide  mouths  and  lang  anes,  never  entered  your 
mind  afore,  but  are  baith,  bonafeedy,  the  property  o'  my  ain 
intelleck. 

Ambrose.  I  ask  you  many  pardons,  Mr.  Hogg.  They  are 
both  your  own,  I  now  perceive,  and  I  promise  never  to  make 
use  of  them  without  your  permission  in  writing — or — 

Shepherd.  Poo — I'm  no  sae  pernickitty  *  as  that  about  my 
original  ideas  ;  only  when  folk  do  mak  use  o'  my  obs,  I  think 
it  but  fair  they  should  add,  "  as  Mr.  Hogg  well  said,"  "  as  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd  admirably  remarked,"  "as  the  celebrated 
author  o'  the  Queen's  Wake,  wi'  his  usual  felicity,  observed  " 
— and  so  forth — and  ma  faith,  if  some  folk  that's  reckoned 
yeloquent  at  roots  and  petty  soopers  were  aye  to  do  that 
when  they're  what's  ca'd  maist  brilliant,  my  name  wad  be 
seldom  out  o'  their  mouths.  Even  North  himsel — 

*  Pernickitty — particular. 


236  The  Doctrine  of  Dreams 

Ambrose.  Do  not  be  angry  with  me,  sir — but  it's  most 
delightful  to  hear  Mr.  North  and  you  bandying  matters  across 
the  table  ;  ye  take  such  different  views  always  of  the  same 
subject ;  yet  I  find  it,  when  standing  behind  the  chair,  impos 
sible  not  to  agree  with  you  both. 

Shepherd.  That's  just  it,  Mr.  Awmrose.  That's  the  way 
to  exhowst  a  subject.  The  ane  o'  us  ploughs  down  the  rig, 
and  the  ither  across,  then  on  wi'  the  harrows,  and  the  field 
is  like  a  garden. 

Ambrose.  See,  sir,  he  stirs  ! 

Shepherd.  The  crutch  is  like  a  very  tree  growin  out  o'  the 
earth — so  straucht  and  steddy.  I  daursay  he  sleeps  wi't  in 
his  bed.  Noo — you  see  his  mouth  to  perfection — just  a  wee 
open — showing  the  teeth — a  smile  and  no  a  snarl — the  thin 
lips  o'  him  slightly  curled  and  quiverin,  and  the  corners 
drawn  doun  a  wee,  and  then  up  again  wi'  a  swirl,  giein  won- 
derfu'  animation  to  his  yet  ruddy  cheeks — a  mouth  unitin  in 
ane  Mr.  Jaffray's  and  that  o'  Canning's  and  Cicero's  busts. 

Ambrose.  No  young  lady — no  widow — could  look  at  him 
now,  as  he  sits  there,  Mr.  Hogg,  God  bless  him,  without 
thinking  of  a  first  or  second  husband.  Many  is  the  offer  he 
must  have  refused ! 

Shepherd.  Is  that  your  fashun  in  Yorkshire,  Mr.  Awmrose, 
for  the  women  to  ask  the  men  to  marry  ? 

Ambrose  (susurrans).  Exceptio  probat  regulam,  sir. 

Shepherd.  Faith,  ye  speak  Latin  as  weel's  mysel.  Do  you 
ken  the  Doctrine  o'  Dreams  ? 

Ambrose.  No,  sir.  Dreaming  seems  to  me  a  very  unin 
telligible  piece  of  business. 

Shepherd.  So  thinks  Mr.  Coleridge  and  "  Kubla  Khan."  * 
But  the  sowl,  ye  see,  is  swayed  by  the  senses — and  it's  in 
my  power  the  noo,  that  Mr.  North's  half-sleepin  and  half- 

*  A  poem  said  by  Coleridge  to  have  been  composed  in  bis  sleep. 


?ELIX  FLUQEL 


Proved  by  drowning  North  237 

waukin,  to  mak  him  dream  o'  a'  sorts  o'  deaths — nay,  to 
dream  that  he  is  himsel  dreein  *  a'  sorts  o'  deaths — ane 
after  the  ither  in  ruefu'  succession,  as  if  he  were  some  great 
criminal  undergoing  capital  punishments  in  the  wild  warld 
o'  sleep. 

Ambrose.  That  would  be  worse  than  blacking  my  dear 
master's  face — for  by  that  name  I  love  to  call  him.  You 
must  not  inflict  on  him  the  horror  of  dreams. 

Shepherd.  There  can  be  nae  such  thing  as  cruelty  in  a 
real  philosophical  experiment.  In  philosophy,  though  not  in 
politics,  the  end  justifies  the  means.  Be  quiet,  Awmrose. 
There,  noo,  I  hae  drapt  some  cauld  water  on  his  bald  pow— 
and  it's  tricklin  doun  his  haffits  to  his  lugs.  Whisht !  wait 
a  wee  !  There  na,  ye  see  his  mouth  openin,  and  his  chest 
heavin,  as  if  the  waters  o'  the  deep  sea  were  gullering  in  his 
throat.  He's  now  droonin  ! 

Ambrose.  I  cannot  support  this — Mr.  Hogg — I  must — 

Shepherd.  Haud  back,  sir !  Look  how  he's  tryin  to  streik 
out  his  richt  leg  as  if  it  had  gotten  the  cramp.  He's  tryin 
to  cry  for  help.  Noo  he  has  risen  to  the  surface  for  the  third 
and  last  time.  Noo  he  gies  ower  strugglin,  and  sinks  doun 
to  the  broon-ribbed  sand  amang  the  crawlin  partens  !  f 

Ambrose.  I  must — I  shall  waken  him — 

Shepherd.  The  dreamed  death-fit  is  ower,  for  the  water's 
dried — and  he  thinks  himsel  walkin  up  Leith  Walk,  and  then 
straucht  intil  Mr.  Blackwood's  shop.  But  noo  we'll  hang 
him — 

Ambrose.  My  God  !  that  it  should  ever  have  come  to  this ! 
Yet  there  is  an  interest  in  such  philosophical  experiments, 
Mr.  Hogg,  which  it  is  impossible  to  resist.  But  do  not,  I 
beseech  you,  keep  him  long  in  pain. 

Shepherd.  There — I  just  tichten  a  wee  on  his  wizen  hiti 

*  Dreeiii— suffering.  t  Partens-*- crabs. 


238  And  by  hanging  him. 

black  neck-hankerchief,  and  in  a  moment  you'll  see  him  get 
blue  in  the  face.  Quick  as  the  "  lightning  on  a  collied 
night,"  the  dream  conies  athwart  his  sowl !  He's  on  the 
scaffold,  and  the  grey-headed,  red-eyed,  white-faced  hang 
man's  lean,  shrivelled  hands  are  fumblin  about  his  throat, 
fixing  the  knot  on  the  juglar !  See  how  puir  North  clutches 
the  cambric,  naturally  averse  to  fling  it  frae  him,  as  a  signal 
for  the  drap  !  It's  no  aboon  a  minute  since  we  began  the 
experiment,  and  yet  during  that  ae  minute  has  he  planned 
and  perpetrated  his  crime — nae  dout  murder — concealed 
himsel  for  a  month  in  empty  hovels  and  tombs,  in  towns, — • 
in  glens,  and  muirs,  and  woods,  in  the  kintra, — been  appre 
hended,  for  a  reward  o'  one  hundred  guineas,  by  twa  red- 
coated  sheriff' s-officers, — imprisoned  till  he  had  nearly  run 
his  letters, — stood  his  trial  frae  ten  in  the  mornin  till  twelve 
o'clock  at  nicht — examination  o'  witnesses,  the  speech  o'  the 
croon  coonsel,  and  that  o'  the  coonsel  for  the  panel  too,  and 
the  soumin  up  o'  the  Lord  Justice-Clerk,  wane  o'  the  three 
shorter  than  twa  hours, — been  prayed  till,  frae  daybreak  to 
breakfast,  by  three  ministers, — oh,  sickenin  breakfast! — sat'n 
in  a  chair  on  account  o'  his  gout — a  lang,  lang  time  on  the 
scaffold — and  then  aff  he  goes  with  a  swing,  a  swirl,  and  a 
general  shriek — and  a'  within  the  space  o'  some  forty  seconds 
o'  the  time  that  passes  in  the  outer  air  world  which  we 
wauken  creatures  inhabit ; — but  which  is  the  true  time,  and 
which  is  the  fause,  it's  no  for  me  to  say,  for  I'm  nae  meta 
physician,  and  judge  o'  time  either  by  the  shadows  on  the 
hill,  or  on  the  staue  sun-dial,  or  by  the  short  and  lang  haun 
o'  our  aught-day  clock. 

Ambrose.  Mr.  Hogg,  it  is  high  time  this  were  put  an  end 
to, — my  conscience  accuses  me  of  a  great  crime, — and  the 
moment  Mr.  North  awakes,  I  will  make  a  clean  bosom  of  it, 
and  confess  the  whole. 


Ambrose  to  the  Rescue !  239 

Shepherd.  What !   you'll  peach,  will  you  ?     In  that  case,  i( 
is  just  as  weel  to  proceed  to  the  last  extremity.     Rax  me 
ower  the  carvin-knife,  and  I'll  guillotine  him — 
Ambrose.  Shocking,  shocking,  Mr.  Hogg ! 

(  The  SHEPHERD  and  AMBROSE  struggle  violently  for  the 
possession  of  the  carving-knife,  amid  cries  from  the 
latter  of  "  Thieves  !  Robbers  !  Fire  !  Murder  !  " — 
and  in  the  struggle  they  fall  against  the  chimney-piece 
to  the  clash  of  shovel,  poker,  and  tongs.  BRONTE, 
who  has  been  sleeping  under  NORTH'S  chair,  bursts  out 
with  a  bull-bellow,  a  tiger-growl,  and  a  lion-roar — and 
NORTH  awakes — collaring  the  SHEPHERD.) 

Bronte.  Bow — wow — wow — wow — wow — wow — 

Shepherd.  Ca'  aff  your  dowg,  Mr.  North — ca'  aff  your 
dowg !  He's  devourin  me — 

North  (undisturbed  from  his  former  posture).  Gentlemen, 
what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this — you  seem  discomposed  ? 
James !  engaged  in  the  duello  with  Mr.  Ambrose  ?  Mr. 
Ambrose  !  [Exit  Mr.  AMBROSE,  retrogrediens,  much  confused* 

Shepherd.  I'll  ca'  him  out — I'll  ca'  him  out  wi'  pistols  !  He 
was  the  first  aggressor. 

North.  Arrange  your  dress,  James,  then  sit  down,  and 
narrate  to  me  truly  these  plusquam  civilia  bella. 

Shepherd.  Why,  ye  see,  sir,  a  gentleman  in  the  hotel,  a 
Russian  General,  I  believe,  was  anxious  to  see  you  sleepin, 
and  to  take  a  sketch  o'  you  in  that  predicament  for  the 
Emperor,  and  Mr.  Awmrose  insisted  on  bringin  him  in, 
whether  I  would  or  no, — and  as  I  know  you  have  an  an 
tipathy  against  having  your  head  taken  aff — as  naebody  can 
hit  the  face,  and  a'  the  likenesses  yet  attempted  are  mere 
caricatures — I  rose  to  oppose  the  entrance  o'  the  General. 
Mr.  Awmrose  put  himsel  into  what  I  could  not  but  construe 
a  fechtin  attitude,  though  I  daursay  it  was  only  on  the 


'240  -K°       °n  his  Mettle. 


defensive  ;  we  yokit,  and  on  me  tryin  to  hough  him,  we 
tumbled  again'  the  mantel-piece,  arid  you  awoke.  This  is 
the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth. 

(NoRTH  rings  the  bell  violently,  and  Mr.  AMBROSE  appears?) 

North.  Show  in  the  Russian  General,  sir  ! 

Ambrose.  The  Russian  General,  sir  ! 

North.  How  dare  you  repeat  my  words  ?  I  say,  sir,  show 
in  the  Russian  General. 

Shepherd.  Haw  —  haw  —  haw  —  haw  —  haw  —  haw  —  haw  —  • 
haw  !  I'm  like  to  spleet  !  Haw  —  haw  —  haw  —  haw  —  haw  — 
haw! 

North  (with  dignity).  These  manners,  sir,  may  do  in  Ettrick 
—  or  the  Forest  —  where  the  breed  of  wild  boars  is  not  wholly 
extirpated  —  but  in  Edinburgh  we  expect  — 

Shepherd.  Na  —  gin  that  be  the  way  o't,  I  maun  be  on  my 
mettle  too.  As  for  your  wutticism,  sir,  about  the  boars,  it's 
just  perfectly  contemptible,  and,  indeed,  at  the  best,  nae 
better  than  a  maist  meeserable  pun.  And  as  to  mainners,  I'll 
bet  you  a  ten-gallon  cask  to  a  half-mutchkin,  that  I'll  show 
an  elder  in  Yarrow  Kirk,  ony  Sabbath  atween  this  and 
Christmas,  that  shall  outmainner  your  ainsel,  wi'  a*  your 
high  breedin,  in  everything  that  constitutes  true  natural 
dignity  —  and  as  for  female  mainners,  seleck  the  maist 
yelegant  and  fashionable  leddy  that  you  see  walkin  alang 
Princes  Street,  wi'  a  bonnet  bigger  than  a  boyne,*  atween 
three  and  four  o'  the  afternoon,  when  the  street's  like  a 
stream,  and  gin  I  dinna  bring  frae  the  Forest,  within  a  mile's 
range,  wi'  Mount  Benger  the  centre  of  the  circle,  a  bare- 
leggit  lassie,  wi'  hauns,  aiblins,  red  and  hard  wi'  mil  kin  the 
coos,  wi'  naething  on  her  head  but  a  bit  pinchbeck  kame, 
that  shall  outmainner  your  city  madam,  till  she  blush  black 
through  the  red  pent  on  her  cheeks  —  my  name's  no  James 

*  Boyne—a,  large  wooden  tub. 


High  Jinks.  241 

Hogg — that's  a'.  And  whether  you  tak  the  wager  or  no,  let 
me  tell  you  to  the  face  o'  you,  that  you're  a  damned  arrogant, 
upsettin,  impudent  fallow,  and  that  I  do  not  care  the  crack  o' 
my  thoom  for  you,  or  your  Magazin,  or  your  Buchanan  Lodge, 
were  you  and  they  worth  ten  thousand  million  times  mair  than 
what  you  ever  will  be,  as  lang's  your  name's  Christopher  North! 

North.  James,  you  are  a  pretty  fellow.  Nothing  will  satisfy 
you,  it  seems,  but  to  insult  most  grossly  the  old  man  whom 
you  have  first  drowned  in  his  sleep,  then  hanged,  and,  but  for 
my  guardian  angel,  Ambrose,  would  have  guillotined ! 

Shepherd.  What !  and  you  were  pretending  to  be  asleep  a* 
the  while  o'  the  pheelosophical  experiments  ?  What  a  horrid 
heepocrit !  You're  really  no  fit  company  for  plain,  simple, 
honest  folk  like  the  like  o'  me ;  but  as  we've  been  baith  to 
blame,  especially  you,  who  began  it  a'  by  shammin  sleep,  let's 
shake  hauns,  and  say  nae  mair  about  it.  Do  you  ken  I'm 
desperate  hungry — and  no  a  little  thursty. 

(Re-enter  Mr.  AMBROSE,  in  trim  apparel  and  downcast 
eyes,  with  a  board  of  oysters.) 

North.  Bless  you,  James !  You  wheel  me  round  in  my  chair 
to  the  table  with  quite  a  filial  touch.  Ay,  my  dear  boy,  take 
a  pull  at  the  porter,  for  you  are  in  a  violent  perspiration. 

Shepherd.  Naething  like  draft ! 

North.  Mr.  Ambrose,  confine  the  Russian  General  to  his 
chamber — and  see  that  you  keep  him  in  fresh  train-oil. 

[Exit  MR.  AMBROSE,  smiling  through  his  tears. 

North.  James,  I  shrewdly  suspect  Mr.  Ambrose  is  up  to  our 
high- jinks. 

Shepherd.  I  really  begin  to  jalouse  he  is.  He  was  sair 
frichtened  at  first — but  I  thocht  I  heard  him  geein  a  bit  grunt 
o'  a  lauch,  a  sort  o'  suppressed  nicher.  ahint  the  door,  to  the 
flunkeys  in  the  trance,  wha  had  a'  flocked  thegitherin  acrood 
at  the  cry  o'  Fire  and  Murder. 


242  North's  Attack  of  Cholera. 

North.  I  feel  as  if  an  oppressive  weight  were  taken  from 
my  heart. 

Shepherd.  Then  that's  mair  than  I  do — mair  than  you  or 
ony  ither  man  should  say,  after  devoorin  half  a  hunder  eisters 
— and  siccan  eisters — to  say  naething  o'  a  tippenriy  loaf,  a 
quarter  o'  a  pund  o'  butter — and  the  better  pairt  o'  twa  pots 
o'  porter. 

North.  James  !  I  have  not  eat  a  morsel,  or  drank  a  drop, 
since  breakfast. 

Shepherd.  Then  I've  been  confusioning  you  wi'  mysel.  A' 
the  time  that  I  was  sookin  up  the  eisters  frae  out  o'  their 
shells,  ilka  ane  sappier  than  anither  in  its  shallow  pool  of 
caller  saut  sea-water,  and  some  o'  them  takin  a  stronger  sook 
than  ithers  to  rug  them  out  o'  their  cradles, — I  thocht  I  saw 
you,  sir,  in  my  mind's  ee,  and  no  by  my  bodily  organs,  it 
would  appear,  doin  the  same  to  a  nicety,  only  dashin  on  mair 
o'  the  pepper,  and  mixing  up  mustard  wi'  your  vinegar,  as  if 
gratifying  a  fause  appeteet. 

North.  That  cursed  cholera — 

Shepherd.  I  never,  at  ony  time  o'  the  year,hae  recourse  to 
the  cruet  till  after  the  lang  hunder — and  in  September — after 
four  months'  fast  frae  the  creturs — I  can  easily  devoor  them 
by  theirsels  just  in  their  ain  liccor,  on  till  anither  fifty — and 
then  to  be  sure,  just  when  I  am  beginning  to  be  a  wee 
stawed,*  I  apply  first  the  pepper  to  a  squad,  and  then,  after  a 
score  or  twa  in  that  way,  some  dizzen  and  a  half  wi'  vinegar, 
and  finish  aff,  like  you,  wi'  a  wheen  to  the  mustard,  till  the 
brodd's  naething  but  shells. 

North.  The  cholera  has  left  me  so  weak,  that — 

Shepherd.  I  dinna  ken  a  mair  perplexin  state  o'  mind  to  be 
in  than  to  be  swithering  about  a  further  brodd  o'  eisters,  when 
you've  devoored  what  at  ae  moment  is  felt  to  be  sufficient, 

*  Stawed— surfeited. 


Hoggs  Insensibility.  243 

and  anither  moment  what  is  felt  to  be  very  insufficient— 
feelin  stawed  this  moment,  and  that  moment  yaup  *  as  ever 
— noo  sayin  into  yoursel  that  you'll  order  in  the  toasted 
cheese,  and  then  silently  swearin  that  you  maun  hae  anither 
yokin  at  the  beardies — 

North.  This  last  attack,  James,  has  reduced  me  much — and 
a  few  more  like  it  will  deprive  the  world  of  a  man  whose  poor 
abilities  were  ever  devoted  to  her  ser — 

Shepherd.  I  agree  wi'  ye,  sir,  in  a'  ye  say  about  the  diffee- 
culty  o'  the  dilemma.  But  during  the  dubiety  and  the 
swither,  in  comes  honest  Mr.  Awmrose,  o'  his  ain  accord,  wi' 
the  final  brodd,  and  a  body  feels  himsel  to  have  been  a  great 
suinph  for  suspecking  ae  single  moment  that  he  wasna  able 
for  his  share  o'  the  concluding  Centenary  o'  Noble  Inventions. 
There's  really  no  end  in  natur  to  the  eatin  o'  eisters. 

North.  Really,  James,  your  insensibility,  your  callousness 
to  my  complaints,  painfully  affects  me,  arid  forces  me  to  be 
lieve  that  Friendship,  like  Love,  is  but  an  empty  name. 

Shepherd.  An  empty  wame  ?  f  It's  your  ain  faut  gin  it's 
empty — but  you  wadna  surely  be  for  eatin  the  very  shells  ? 
Oh !  Mr.  North,  but  o'  a'  the  men  I  ever  knew  you  are  the 
most  distinguished  by  natural  and  native  coortesy  and  polite 
ness — by  what  Cicero  calls  Urbanity.  Tak  it — tak  it.  For, 
I  declare,  were  I  to  tak  it,  I  never  could  forgie  mysel  a'  my 
days.  Tak  it,  sir. — My  dear  sir,  tak  it. 

North.  What  do  you  mean,  James  ?  What  the  devil  can 
you  mean  ? 

Shepherd.  The  last  eister — the  mainners  eister — it's  but  a 
wee  ane,  or  it  hedna  been  here.  There,  sir,  I've  douked  it  in 
an  amalgamation  o'  pepper,  vinegar,  and  mustard,  and  a  wee 
drap  whusky.  Open  your  mouth,  and  tak  it  aff  the  pint  o' 
my  fork — that's  a  gude  bairn. 

*  Yaup— hungry.  f   jjrame— stomach. 


244  North's  Confession. 

North.  I  have  been  very  ill,  my  dear  James. 

Shepherd.  Haud  your  tongue — nae  sic  thing.  Your  cheeks 
are  no  half  that  shrivelled  they  were  last  year ;  and  there's  a 
circle  o'  yeloquent  bluid  in  them  baith,  as  ruddy  as  Robin's 
breast.  Your  lips  are  no  like  cherries — but  they  were  aye 
rather  thin  and  colorless  since  first  I  keiit  you  ;  and  when 
chirted  thegither — oh !  man,  but  they  have  a  scornfu',  and 
savage,  and  cruel  expression,  that  ought  seldom  to  be  on  a 
face  o'  clay.  As  for  your  een,  there's  twenty  guid  year  o'  life 
in  their  licht  yet.  But,  Lord  safe  us  ! — dinna,  I  beseech  you, 
put  on  your  specks ;  for  when  you  cock  up  your  chin,  and  lie 
back  on  your  chair,  and  keep  fastenin  your  lowin  een  upon  a 
body  through  the  glasses,  it's  mair  than  mortal  man  can 
endure — you  look  so  like  the  Deevil  Incarnate. 

North.  I  am  a  much  injured  man  in  the  estimation  of  the 
world,  James,  for  I  am  gentle  as  a  sleeping  child. 

Shepherd.  Come,  now — you're  wushin  me  to  flatter  you — 
ye're  desperate  fond,  man,  o'  flattery. 

North.  I  admit — confess — glory  that  I  am  so.  It  is  im 
possible  to  lay  it  on  too  thick.  All  that  an  author  has  to  do 
to  secure  a  favorable  notice — 

Shepherd.  What'n  an  avooal ! 

North.  Why,  James,  are  you  so  weak  as  ever  to  have 
imagined  for  a  moment  that  I  care  a  pin's  point  for  truth, 
in  the  praise  or  blame  bestowed  or  inflicted  on  any  mortal 
creature  in  my  Magazine  ? 

Shepherd.  What's  that  you  say  ? — can  I  believe  my  lugs  ? 

North.  I  have  been  merely  amusing  myself  fora  few  years 
back  with  the  great  gawky  world.  The  truth  is,  James,  that 
I  am  a  misanthrope,  and  have  a  liking  only  for  Cockneys. 

Shepherd.  The  chandaleer's  gaun  to  fa'  doun  on  our  heads. 
Eat  your  words,  sir,  eat  your  words,  or — 

North.  You  would  not  have  me  lie,  during  the  only  time 


The  Shepherd's  Horror.  245 

that,  for  many  years,  I  have  felt  a  desire  to  speak  the  truth  ? 
The  only  distinctions  I  acknowledge  are  intellectual  ones. 
Moral  distinctions  there  are  none — and  as  for  religion — it  is 
alia— 

Shepherd  (standing  up).  And  it's  on  principles  like  these 
— boldly  and  unblushingly  avoo'd  here — in  Mr.  Awmrose's 
paper-parlor,  at  the  conclusion  o'  the  sixth  brodd,  on  the 
evening  o'  Monday  the  22d  o'  September,  Anno  Dominie 
aughteen  hunder  and  twunty-aught,  within  twa  hours  o'  mid- 
nicht — that  you,  sir,  have  been  yeditin  a  Maggasin  that  has 
gone  out  to  the  uttermost  corners  o'  the  yerth,  wherever 
civilization  or  uncivilization  is  known,  deludin  and  distrackin 
men  and  women  folk,  till  it's  impossible  for  them  to  ken  their 
right  hand  frae  their  left — or  whether  they're  standin  on  their 
heels  or  their  heads — or  what  byeuk  ought  to  be  perused, 
and  what  byeuk  puttin  intil  the  bottom  o'  pie-dishes  and 
trunks — or  what  awthor  hissed,  or  what  awthor  hurraa'd — or 
what's  flummery  and  what's  philosophy — or  what's  rant  and 
what's  religion — or  what's  monopoly  and  what's  free  tredd — 
or  wha's  poets  or  wha's  but  Pats — or  whether  it's  best  to  be 
drunk,  or  whether  it's  best  to  be  sober  a'  hours  o'  the  day  and 
nicht — or  if  there  should  be  rich  church  establishments  as  in 
England,  or  poor  kirk  ones  as  in  Scotland — or  whether  the 
Bishop  o'  Canterbury,  wi'  twunty  thousan'  a  year,  is  mair  like 
a  primitive  Christian  than  the  Minister  o'  Kirkintulloch  wi' 
twa  hunder  and  fifty — or  if  folk  should  aye  be  readin  sermons 
or  fishin  for  sawmon — or  if  it's  best  to  marry  or  best  to  burn 
— or  if  the  national  debt  hangs  like  a  millstone  round  the 
neck  o'  the  kintra  or  like  a  chain  o'  blae-berries — or  if  the 
Millennium  be  really  close  at  haun,  or  the  present  Solar 
System  be  calculated  to  last  to  a'  eternity — or  whether  the 
people  should  be  edicated  up  to  the  highest  pitch  o'  perfec 
tion,  or  preferably  to  be  all  like  trotters  through  the  Bog  o' 


246  TJte  Shepherd  is  tempted. 

Allen — or  whether  the  Government  should  subsideeze  foreign 
powers,  or  spend  a'  its  siller  on  oursels — or  whether  the 
Blacks  and  the  Catholics  should  be  emancipawted  or  no  afore 
the  demolition  o'  Priest  and  Obis — or  whether — God  forgie 
us  baith  for  the  hypothesis — man  has  a  mortal  or  an  im 
mortal  sowl — be  a  Phoenix — or  an  Eister  ! 

North.  Precisely  so,  James.  You  have  drawn  my  real 
character  to  a  hair — and  the  character,  too,  of  the  baleful 
work  over  which  I  have  the  honor  and  happiness  to  preside. 

Shepherd.  I  canna  sit  here  ony  langer,  and  hear  a'  things, 
visible  and  invisible,  turned  tapsy-turvy  and  tapsalteerie — 
I'm  aff — I'maff — I'm  ower  to  the  Auld  Toon  to  tak  toddy  wi' 
Christians,  and  no  wi'  an  Atheist,  that  would  involve  the 
warld  in  even-doun  Pyrrhonism — and  disorder,  if  he  could, 
the  verra  coorses  o'  the  seven  Planets,  and  set  the  central  Sun 
adrift  through  the  sky.  Gude-nicht  to  ye,  sir — gude-nicht. — 
Ye  are  the  maist  dangerous  o'  a'  reprobates — for  your  private 
conduct  and  character  is  that  o'  an  angel,  but  your  public 
that  o'  a  fiend  ;  and  the  honey  o'  your  domestic  practice  can 
be  nae  antidote  to  the  pushion  o'  your  foreign  principles.  I'm 
aff— I'm  aff. 

(Enter  Mr.  AMBROSE  with  a  Howtowdie,  and  KING  PEPIN 

with  Potatoes  and  Ham.) 

Shepherd  (in  continuation).  What  brought  ye  intil  the  room 
the  noo,  Mr.  Awmrose,  wi'  a  temptation  sic  as  that — nae  flesh 
and  bluid  can  resist  ?  Awa  back  to  the  kitchin  wi'  the  sa 
vory  sacrifice — or  clash  doun  the  Towdie  afore  the  Bagman 
in  the  wee  closet-room  ayont  the  wainscot.  What'n  a  bonny, 
brown,  basted,  buttery,  iley,  and  dreepin  breast  o'  a  roasted 
Earock.  O'  a'  the  smells  I  ever  fan,  that  is  the  maist  in- 
supportably  seducin  to  the  palate.  It  has  gien  me  the  water- 
brash.  Weel,  weel,  Mr.  North,  since  you  insist  on't,  we'll 
resume  the  argument  after  supper. 


The  Shepherd's  Fall  247 

North.  Good-night,  James. — Ambrose,  deposit  theTowdie, 
and  show  Mr.  Hogg  down  stairs.  Lord  bless  you,  James — 
good-night. 

Shepherd  (securing  his  seat).  Dinna  say  anither  word,  sir. 
Nae  farther  apology.  I  forgie  you.  Ye  wasna  serious. 
Come,  be  cheerfu' — I'm  sune  pacified.  Oh,  man,  but  ye  cut 
up  a  fool  *  wi'  incredible  dexterity  !  There — a  leg  and  a 
wing  to  yoursel — and  a  leg  and  a  wing  to  me — then,  to  you 
the  breast — for  I  ken  ye  like  the  breast — and  to  me  the  back 
— and  I  dinna  dislike  the  back, — and  then,  Howtowdie! 
"  Farewell !  a  long  farewell  to  all  thy  fatness."  Oh,  sir!  but 
the  taties  are  gran'  the  year!  How  ony  Christian  creature 
can  prefer  waxies  to  mealies,  I  never  could  conjecture. 
Anither  spoonfu'  or  twa  o'  the  gravy.  Haud — haud — what 
a  deluge ! 

North.  This,  I  trust,  my  dear  Shepherd,  will  be  a  good 
season  for  the  poor. 

Shepherd.  Nae  fear  o'  that,  sir.  Has  she  ony  eggs  ?  But  I 
forgot — the  hens  are  no  layin  the  noo  ;  they're  mootin.f 
Faith,  considering  ye  didna  eat  mony  o'  the  eisters,  your 
appeteet's  no  amiss,  sir.  Pray,  sir,  will  ye  tell  me  gin  there 
be  ony  difference  atween  this  new-fangled  Oriental  disease, 
they  ca'  the  Cholera,  and  the  gude  auld-fashion'd  Scottish 
complent,  the  colic  ?  For  gudesake,  dinna  drain  the  dolphin  ! 

North.  A  mixture  of  Giles's  and  Berwick — nectar  worthy 
an  ambrosial  feast ! 

Shepherd.  It  gars  my  een  water,  and  my  lugs  crack.  Noo 
for  the  toasted  cheese. 

(Enter  TAFFY  with  two  Welsh  Rabbits,  and  exit.) 

*  Fool— fowl.  t  Mootin— moulting. 


XVII. 

THE  HAGGIS  DELUGE. 

SCENE  I. — The  Octagon. — Time, — Ten. 

NORTH. — SHEPHERD. — TICKLER. 

North.  Thank  Heaven  !  my  dear  Shepherd,  Winter  is  come 
again,  and  Edinburgh  is  beginning  once  more  to  look  like 
herself,  like  her  name  and  her  nature,  with  rain,  mist,  sleet, 
haur,  hail,  snow  I  hope,  wind,  storm — would  that  we  could 
but  add  a  little  thunder  and  lightning — the  Queen  of  the 
North. 

Shepherd.  Hoo  could  you,  sir,  wi'  a'  your  time  at  your  ain 
command,  keep  in  and  about  Embro'  f rae  May  to  December  ? 
The  city,  for  three  months  in  the  dead  o'  simmer,  is  like  a  tomb. 

Tickler  (in  a  whisper  to  the  Shepherd).  The  widow — James 
— the  widow. 

Shepherd  (aloud).  The  weedow — sir — the  weedow !  Couldna 
he  hae  brocht  her  out  wi'  him  to  the  Forest?  At  their  time 
o'  life,  surely  scandal  wad  hae  held  her  tongue. 

Tickler.  Scandal  never  holds  her  tongue,  James.  She 
drops  her  poison  upon  the  dew  on  the  virgin's  untimely  grave 
— her  breath  will  not  let  the  grey  hairs  rest  in  the  mould — 

Shepherd.  Then,  Mr.  North,  marry  her  at  ance,  and  bring 
her  out  in  Spring,  that  you  may  pass  the  hinney-moon  on  the 
sunny  braes  o'  Mount  Benger. 

North.     Why,  James,  the  moment  I  begin  to  press  matters, 


A  Tender  Topic.  249 

she  takes  out  her  pocket-handkerchief — and  through  sighs 
and  sobs  recurs  to  the  old  topic — that  twenty  thousand  times 
told  tale— the  dear  old  General. 

Shepherd.  Deevil  keep  the  dear  old  General !  Hasna  the 
man  been  dead  these  twunty  years  ?  And  if  he  had  been 
leevin,  wuldna  he  been  aulder  than  yoursel,  and  far  mair  in 
firm  ?  You're  no  in  the  least  infirm,  sir. 

North.  Ah,  James  !  that's  all  you  know.  My  infirmities 
are  increasing  with  years — 

Shepherd.  Wad  you  be  sae  unreasonable  as  to  expect  them 
to  decrease  with  years  ?  Are  her  infirmities — 

North.     Hush— she  has  no  infirmities. 

Shepherd.  Nae  infirmities  !  Then  she's  no  worth  a  brass 
button.  But  let  me  ask  you  ae  interrogatory. — Hae  ye  ever 
put  the  question  ?  Answer  me  that,  sir. 

North.     Why,  James,  I  cannot  say  that  I  ever  have — 

Shepherd.  What !  and  you  expeck  that  she  wull  put  the 
question  to  you?  That  would  indeed  be  puttin  the  cart 
before  the  horse.  If  the  women  were  to  ask  the  men,  there 
wad  be  nae  leevin  in  this  warld.  Yet  let  me  tell  you,  Mr. 
North,  that  it's  a  shamefu'  thing  to  keep  playin  in  the  way 
you  hae  been  doin  for  these  ten  years  past  on  a  young  woman's 
feelings — 

Tickler.  Ha — ha — ha — James ! — A  young  woman  !  Why, 
she's  sixty,  if  she's  an  hour. 

North.     You  lie. 

Shepherd.  That's  a  douss  *  on  the  chops,  Mr.  Tickler. 
That's  made  you  as  red  in  the  face  as  a  bubbly-jock,  sir.  Oh, 
the  power  o'  ae  wee  bit  single  monosyllabic  syllable  o'  a  word 
to  awauken  a'  the  saf  ter  and  a'  the  fiercer  passions  !  Dinna 
keep  bitin  your  thoomb,  Mr.  Tickler,  like  an  Itawlian  !  Make 
an  apology  to  Mr.  North — 

*  Douss— a  blow,  a  stroke. 


250  North  and  Tickler  embrace. 

North.  I  will  accept  of  no  apology.  The  man  who  calls 
a  woman  old  deserves  death. 

Shepherd.     Did  you  call  her  auld,  Mr.  Tickler  ? 

Tickler.  To  you,  sir,  I  will  condescend  to  reply.  I  did  not. 
I  merely  said  she  was  sixty  if  she  was  an  hour. 

Shepherd.  In  the  first  place,  dinna  "  Sir  "  me — for  it's  not 
only  ill-bred,  but  it's  stupit.  In  the  second  place,  dinna  talk 
o'  "  condescending  "  to  reply  to  me — for  that's  language  I'll  no 
thole  even  f  rae  the  King  on  the  throne,  and  I'm  sure  the  King 
on  the  throne  wadna  mak  use  o't.  In  the  third  place,  to  ca'  a 
woman  saxty,  and  then  maintain  that  ye  didna  ca'  her  auld, 
is  naething  short  o'  a  sophism.  And  in  the  fourth  place,  you 
shudna  hae  accompanied  your  remark  wi'  a  loud  haw — haw — 
haw, — for  on  a  tender  topic  a  guffaw's  an  aggravation — and 
marryin  a  widow,  let  her  age  be  what  it  wull,  is  a  tender  topic, 
depend  on't — sae  that  on  a  calm  and  dispassionate  view  o'  a' 
the  circumstances  o'  the  case,  there  can  be  nae  dout  that  you 
maun  mak  an  apology  ;  or,  if  you  do  not,  I  leave  the  room,  and 
there  is  in  end  of  the  Noctes  Ambrosiaiiae. 

North.     An  end  of  the  Noctes  Ambrosianae ! 

Tickler.     An  end  of  the  Noctes  Ambrosianae  ! 

Shepherd.     An  end  of  the  Noctes  Ambrosianae. 

Omnes.     An  end  of  the  Noctes  Ambrosianae  ! ! ! 

North.  Rather  than  that  should  happen,  I  will  make  a 
thousand  apologies — 

Tickler.     And  I  ten  thousand — 

Shepherd.  That's  behavin  like  men  and  Christians.  Em 
brace — embrace.  [NORTH  and  TICKLER  embrace. 

North.     Where  were  we,  James  ? 

Shepherd.     I  was  nbusin  Embro'  in  simmer. 

North.     Why  ? 

Shepherd.  Whey  ? — a'  the  lums  *  smokeless !    No  ae  f  jack 

•  Lums— chimneys.  t  No  ae— not  one. 


Edinburgh  in  Summer.  251 

turnin  a  piece  o'  roastin  beef  afore  ae  fire  in  ony  ae  kitchen  in 
a'  the  New  Toon  !  Streets  and  squares  a'  grass-grown,  sae 
that  they  micht  be  mawn !  Shops  like  beehives  that  hae 
dee'd  in  wunter!  Coaches  settin  aff  for  Stirlin,  and  Perth, 
and  Glasgow,  and  no  ae  passenger  either  inside  or  out — only 
the  driver  keepin  up  his  heart  wi'  flourishing  his  whip,  and 
the  guard  sittin  in  perfect  solitude,  playin  an  eerie  spring  on 
his  bugle-horn  !  The  shut-up  playhouse  a'  covered  ower  wi' 
bills  that  seem  to  speak  o'  plays  acted  in  an  antediluvian 
world !  But  to  return  to  the  near  approach  o'  wunter. 
Mankind  hae  again  putten  on  worsted  stocking,  and  flannen 
drawers — white  jeans  and  yellow  nankeen  troosers  hae  dis 
appeared — dooble  soles  hae  gotten  a  secure  footen  ower  pumps 
— big-coats  wi'  fur,  and  mantles  wi'  miniver,  gie  an  agreeable 
rouchness  to  the  picturesque  stream  o'  life  eddyin  alang  the 
channel  o'  the  streets — gloves  and  mittens  are  sae  general 
that  a  red  hairy  haun  looks  rather  singular — every  third  body 
ye  meet,  for  fear  o'  a  sudden  blash,  carries  an  unbrella — a* 
folk  shave  noo  wi'  het  water — coal-carts  are  emptyin  theirsels 
into  ilka  area — caddies  at  the  corners  o'  the  streets  and  drivers 
on  coach-boxes  are  seen  warmin  themsels  by  blawin  on  their 
fingers,  or  whuskin  themsels  wi'  their  open  nieves  across  the 
shouthers — skates  glitter  at  shop-wundows,  prophetic  o'  frost 
— Mr.  Phin  may  tak  in  his  rod  noo,  for  nae  mair  thocht  o' 
anglin  till  spring, — and  wi'  spring  hersel,  as  wi'  ither  o'  our 
best  and  bonniest  freens,  it  may  be  said,  out  o'  sicht  out  o' 
mind. — you  see  heaps  o'  bears  hung  out  for  sale — horses  are 
a  hairier  o'  the  hide — the  bit  toon  bantam  craws  nane,  and 
at  breakfast  you  maim  tak  tent  no  to  pree  an  egg  afore 
smellin  ut  it, — you  meet  hares  carryin  about  in  a'  quarters — 
and  ggemkeepers  proceedin  out  into  the  kintra  wi'  strings  o' 
grews, — sparrows  sit  silent  and  smoky  wi'  ruffled  feathers, 
waiting  for  crumbs  on  the  ballustrawds — loud  is  the  cacklin 


252  Womankind  in  Winter. 

in  the  fowl-market  o'  Christmas  geese  that  come  a  month  at 
least  afore  the  day,  just  like  thae  Annuals  the  Forget-me- 
Nots,  Amulets,  Keepsakes,  Beejoos,  Gems,  Anniversaries, 
Souvenirs,  Friendship's  Offerings,  and  Wunter-  Wreaths  — 

Tickler.  Stop,  James  —  stop.  Such  an  accumulation  of 
imagery  absolutely  confounds—  perplexes  — 

Shepherd.  Folk  o'  nae  fancy.     Then  for  womankind  — 

Tickler.  Oh  !  James,  James  !  I  knew  you  would  not  long 
keep  off  that  theme  — 

Shepherd.  Oh,  ye  pawkie  auld  carle  !  What  ither  theme 
in  a'  this  wide  weary  warld  is  worth  ae  single  thocht  or  feelin 
in  the  poet's  heart  —  ae  single  line  frae  the  poet's  pen  —  ae 
single— 

North.  Song  from  the  Shepherd's  lyre  —  of  which,  as  of  the 
Teian  Bard's  of  old,  it  may  be  said  :  — 
'A  3a3iTO(;  6e 


Do,  my  dear  James,  give  us  John  Nicholson's  daughter. 

Shepherd.  Wait  a  wee.  The  womankind,  I  say,  sirs,  never 
look  sae  bonny  as  in  wunter,  excepp  indeed  it  may  be  in 
spring— 

Tickler.  Or  summer  or  autumn,  James  — 

Shepherd.  Haud  your  tongue.  You  old  bachelors  ken 
naething  o'  womankind  —  and  hoo  should  ye,  when  they 
treat  you  wi'  but  ae  feelin,  that  o'  derision  ?  Oh,  sirs  !  but 
the  dear  creturs  do  look  weel  in  muffs  —  whether  they  haud 
them,  wi'  their  invisible  hauns  clasped  thegither  in  their 
beauty  within  the  cosy  silk  linin,  close  prest  to  their  innicent 
waists,  just  aueath  the  glad  beatins  o'  their  first-love-touched 
hearts  — 

Tickler.  There  again,  James  ! 

Shepherd.  Or  haud  them  hingin  frae  their  extended  richt 

*  The  harp  with  its  strings  sounds  only  love. 


A  dear  little  Laplander.  253 

arms,  leavin  a'  the  feegur  visible,  that  seems  taller  and 
slimmer  as  the  removed  muff  reveals  the  clasps  o'  the  pelisse 
a'  the  way  douu  frae  neck  till  feet ! 

North.  Look  at  Tickler— James — how  he  moves  about  in 
his  chair.  His  restlessness — 

Shepherd.  Is  no  unnatural.  Then,  sir,  is  there,  in  a'  the 
beautifu'  and  silent  unfauldins  o'  natur  amang  plants  and 
flowers,  onything  sae  beautifu'  as  the  white,  smooth,  saft 
chafts  o'  a  bit  smilin  maiden  o'  saxteen,  aughteen,  or  twunty 
blossomin  out,  like  some  bonny  bud  o'  snaw-white  satin,  frae 
a  co verm  o'  rough  leaves, — blossomin  out,  sirs,  frae  the  edge 
o'  the  fur  tippet,  that  haply  a  lover's  happy  haun  had  deli 
cately  hung  ower  her  gracefu'  shouthers — oh,  the  dear  de- 
lightfu'  little  Laplander ! 

Tickler.  For  a  married  man,  James,  you  really  describe— 

North.  Whisht! 

Shepherd.  I  wush  you  only  heard  the  way  the  bonny 
croodin-doos  *  keep  murmuring  their  jeists  f  to  ane  anither, 
as  soon  as  a  nest  o'  them  gets  rid  o'  an  auld  bacheleer  on 
Princes  Street. 

Tickler.  Gets  rid  o'  an  auld  bachelor  ! 

Shepherd.  Booin  and  scrapinto  them  after  the  formal  and 
stately  fashion  o'  the  auld  school  o'  politeness,  and  thinkio 
himsel  the  very  pink  o'  courtesy,  wi'  a  gold-headed  cane, 
aiblins,  nae  lest,  in  his  haun,  and  buckles  on's  shoon — for 
buckles  are  no  quite  out  yet  a'thegither — a  frill  like  a  fan  at 
the  shirt-neck  o'  him — and,  wad  the  warld  believe't,  knee- 
breeks  ! — then  they  titter — and  then  they  lauch — and  then, 
as  musical  as  if  they  were  singin  in  pairts,  the  bonny, 
bloomin,  innicent  wicked  creturs  break  out  into — I  maunna 
say,  o'  sic  rosy  lips,  and  sic  snawy  breasts,  a  guffaw  $ — 

»  Croodin-doos— cooing-doves.  t  Jeists— jeata. 

t  Guffaw— a  broad  laugh 


254  The  Haggis  is  introduced. 

but  a  guffay,  sirs,  a  guffay — for  that's  the  feminine  o' 
guffaw — '• 

North.  Tickler,  we  really  must  not  allow  ourselves  to  be 
insulted  in  this  style  any  longer — 

Shepherd.  And  then  awa  they  trip,  sirs,  flingin  an  antelope's 
or  gazelle's  ee  ower  their  shouther,  diverted  beyond  measure 
to  see  their  antique  beau  continuing  at  a  distance  to  cut 
capers  in  his  pride — till  a'  at  ance  they  see  a  comet  in  the 
sky — a  young  offisher  o'  dragoons,  wi''  his  helmet  a'  in  a  low 
wi'  a  flicker  o'  red  feathers — and  as  he  "  turns  and  winds  his 
fiery  Pegassus,"  they  are  a'  mute  as  death — yet  every  face  at 
the  same  time  eloquent  wi'  mantling  smiles,  and  wi'  blushes 
that  break  through  and  around  the  blue  heavens  of  their 
een,  like  crimson  clouds  to  sudden  sunlight  burning  beauti 
ful  for  a  moment,  and  then  melting  away  like  a  thocht  or  a 
dream  ! 

North.  Why,  my  dear  James,  it  does  one's  heart  good  even 
to  be  ridiculed  in  the  language  of  Poetry.  Does  it  not, 
Tickler  ? 

Tickler.  James,  your  health,  my  dear  fellow. 

Shepherd.  I  never  ridicule  onybody,  sirs,  that's  no  fit  to 
bear  it.  But  there's  some  sense  and  some  satisfaction  in 
makin  a  fule  o'  them,  that,  when  the  fiend's  in  them,  can  mak 
fules  o'  a'body,  like  North  and  Tickler 

(Enter  Mr.  AMBROSE  with  a  hot  roasted  Round  of  Beef— 
KING  PEPIN  with  a  couple  of  boiled  Ducks — SIR 
DAVID  GAM  with  a  trencher  of  Tripe  a  la  Meg  Dods — and 
TAPPYTOORIK  with  a  Haggis.  Pickled  Salmon,  Welsh 
Rabbits,  fyc.,  frc. — and,  as  usual,  Oysters,  raw,  stewed 
scolloped,  roasted,  and  pickled,  of  course — Rizzards, 
Finzeans,  Red  Herrings.) 

Shepherd.  You've  really  served  up  a  bonny  wee  neat  bit 
eooper  for  three,  Mr.  Awmrose.  I  hate,  for  my  ain  pairt,  to 


The  Haggis  overflows.  255 

see  a  table  overloaded.     It's  sae  vulgar.     I'll  carve  the  hag 
gis.* 

North.  I  beseech  you,  James,  for  the  love  of  all  that  is 
dear  to  you,  here  and  hereafter,  to  hold  your  hand.  Stop— 
stop — stop ! 

{The  SHEPHERD  sticks  the  Haggis,  and  the  Table  is 
instantly  overjloived.) 

.  Shepherd.     Heavens    and    earth !    is    the    Haggis   mad? 

Tooels !  f  Awmrose — tooels  !  Safe  us !  we'll  a'  be  drooned ! 

[PiCARDY  and  his  Tail  rush  out  for  towels. 

North.  Rash  man  !  what  ruin  have  you  wrought !  See 
how  it  has  overflown  the  deck  from  stem  to  stern — we  shall 
all  be  lost. 

Shepherd.  Sweepin  everything  afore  it !  Whare's  the  puir 
biled  $  dyucks  ?  Only  the  croon-head  o'  the  roun'  visible ! 
Tooels — tooels — tooels  !  Send  roun'  the  fire-drum  through 
the  city. 

(Re-enter  PICARDY  and  "  the  Rest ''  with  napery.} 

Mr.  Ambrose.  Mr.  North,  I  look  to  you  for  orders  in  the 
midst  of  this  alarming  calamity.  Shall  I  order  in  more 
strength  ? 

Shepherd.  See — see — sir  !  it's  creeping  alang  the  carpet ! 
We're  like  men  left  on  a  sandbank,  when  the  tide's  comin 
in  rampaugin.  Oh  !  that  I  had  insured  my  life  !  Oh !  that 
I  had  learned  to  soom  !  §  What  wull  become  o'  my  widow 
and  my  fatherless  children  ? 

North.  Silence  !     Let  us  die  like  men. 

Shepherd.  0  Lord !  it's  ower  our  insteps  already  !  Open 
a'  the  doors  and  wundows — and  let  it  find  its  ain  level.  I'll 
up  on  a  chair  in  the  meantime. 

*  Atiagyis  is  the  stomach  of  a  sheep  filled  with  the  lungs,  heart,  and  liver 
of  the  same  animal,  minced  with  suet,  onions,  salt,  and  pepper. 

t  Tooels — towels,  $  Biled — boiled.  §  Soom— swim. 


2_/6  TJte  Haggis  rises. 

{The  SHEPHERD  mounts  the  back  of  The  Chair, 
and  draws  Mr.  NORTH  up  after  him.) 

Sit  on  my  shouthers,  my  dear — dear— dearest  sir.  I  insist 
on't.  Mr.  Tickler,  Mr.  Awmrose,  King  Pepin,  Sir  David, 
and  Tappitourie — you  wee  lazy  deevil — help  Mr.  North  up— 
help  Mr.  North  up  on  my  shouthers ! 

(Mr.  NORTH  is  elevated,  Crutch  and  all,  astride  on  the 
SHEPHERD'S  shoulders.) 

North.  Good  God  !     Where  is  Mr.  Tickler? 

Shepherd.  Look — look — look,  sir, — yonner  he's  staunin  on 
the  brace  piece — on  the  mantel !  Noo,  Awmrose,  and  a'  ye 
waiters,  make  your  escape,  and  leave  us  to  our  fate.  Oh ! 
Mr.  North,  gie  us  a  prayer. — What  for  do  you  look  so  mees- 
erable,  Mr.  Tickler  ?  Death  is  common — 'tis  but  "  passing 
through  Natur'  to  Eternity  !  "  And  yet — to  be  drooned  in 
haggis  'ill  be  waur  than  Clarence's  dream  !  Alack  and  alas- 
a-day !  it's  up  to  the  ring  o'  the  bell-rope !  Speak,  Mr. 
Tickler — oh,  speak,  sir — men  in  our  dismal  condition — Are 
you  sittin  easy,  Mr.  North  ? 

North.  Quite  so,  my  dear  James,  I  am  perfectly  resigned. 
Yet,  what  is  to  become  of  Maga — 

Shepherd.  Oh  my  wee  Jamie ! 

North.  I  fear  I  am  very  heavy,  James. 

Shepherd.  Dinna  say't,  sir — dinna  say't.  I'm  like  the  pious 
^Eneas  bearin  his  father  Ancheeses  through  the  flames  o* 
Troy.  The  similie  doesna  haud  gude  at  a'  points — I  wish  it 
did — oh,  haud  fast,  sir,  wi'  your  arms  roun'  my  neck,  lest  the 
cruel  tyrant  o'  a  haggis  swoop  ye  clean  awa  under  the  side 
board  to  inevitable  death ! 

North.  Far  as  the  eye  can  reach  it  is  one  wide  wilderness 
of  suet ! 

Tickler.  Hurra!  hurra!  hurra! 

Shepherd.  Do  you  hear  the  puir  gentleman,  Christopher  ? 


TJie  Haggis  subsides.  257 

It's  affeckin  to  men  in  our  condition  to  see  the  pictur  we  hae 
baith  read  o'  in  accounts  o'  shipwrecks  realeezed !  Timothy's 
gane  mad !  Hear  till  him  shoutin  wi'  horrid  glee  on  the 
brink  o'  eternity  ! 

Tickler.  Hurra !  hurra !  hurra  ! 

North.  Horrible  !  most  horrible ! 

Tickler.  The  haggis  is  subsiding — the  haggis  is  subsiding ! 
It  has  fallen  an  inch  by  the  surbase  *  since  the  Shepherd's 
last  ejaculation. 

Shepherd.  If  you're  tellin  a  lee,  Timothy,  I'll  wade  ower 
to  you,  and  bring  you  doun  aff  the  mantel  wi'  the  crutch. — 
Can  I  believe  my  een  ?  It  is  subseedin.  Hurraw  !  hurraw  ! 
hurraw  !  Nine  times  nine,  Mr.  North,  to  our  deliverance— 
and  the  Protestant  ascendancy. 

Omnes.  Hurra !  hurraw  !  hurree  ! 

Shepherd.  Noo,  sir,  you  may  dismunt. 
(Re-enter  the  Household,  with  the  immediate  neighborhood.) 

Shepherd.  High  Jinks  !  High  Jinks !  High  Jinks  !     The 
haggis  has  putten  out  the  fire,  and  sealed  up  the  boiler — 
( The  SHEPHERD  descends  upon  all-fours,  and  lets 
Mr.  NORTH  off  gently.} 

North.  Oh,  James,  I  am  a  daft  old  man! 

Shepherd.  No  sae  silly  as  Solomon,  sir,  at  your  time  o'  life. 
Noo  for  sooper. 

Tickler.     How  the  devil  am  I  to  get  down  ? 

Shepherd.  How  the  deevil  did  you  get  up  ?  Oh,  ho,  by 
the  gas  ladder !  And  it's  been  removed  in  the  confusion. 
Either  jump  down — or  stay  where  you  are,  Mr.  Tickler. 

Tickler.  Come  now,  James — shove  over  the  ladder. 

Shepherd.  Oh  that  Mr.  Chantrey  was  here  to  sculpturhim 
in  that  attitude  !     Streitch  out  your  richt  haun !     A 
grain  heicher!     Hoo  gran'  he  looks  in  basso-relievo ! 

*  Surbase— the  moulding  at  the  upper  edge  of  the  wainscot. 


258  Tickler— High  and  Dry. 

Tickler.  Shove  over  the  ladder,  you  son  of  the  mist,  or  I'll 
brain  you  with  the  crystal. 

Shepherd.  Sit  doun,  Mr.  North,  opposite  to  me — and  Mr. 
Awmrose,  tak  roun'  my  plate  for  a  shave  o'  the  beef. — Isna 
he  the  perfeck  pictur  o'  the  late  Right  Honorable  William 
Pitt  ? — Shall  I  send  you,  sir,  some  o'  the  biled  dyuck  ? 

North.  If  you  please,  James. — Rather  "  Like  Patience  on 
a  monument  smiling  at  Grief." 

Shepherd.  Gie  us  a  sang,  Mr.  Tickler,  and  then  you  shall 
hae  the  ladder.  I  never  preed  a  roasted  roun'  afore — it's 
real  savory. 

North. — 

"  Oh  !  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 
The  height  where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines  afar  ! " 

Shepherd.  I'll  let  you  doun,  Mr.  Tickler,  if  you  touch  the 
ceilin  wi'  your  fingers.  Itherwise,  you  maun  sing  a  sang. 

(TICKLER  tries  and  fails.) 

Tickler.  Well,  if  I  must  sing,  let  me  have  a  tumbler  of  toddy. 
Shepherd.  Ye  shall  hae  that,  sir. 

(The  SHEPHERDESS  a  tumbler  from  the  jug,  and  balancing  it 
on  the  cross  of  the  crutch,  reaches  it  up  to  Mr.  TICKLER. 
TICKLER  sings  "  The  Twa  Magicians.") 

Shepherd.  Noo — sir — here  is  the  ladder  to  you — for  which 
you're  indebted  to  Mr.  Peter  Buchan,  o'  Peterhead,  the 
ingenious  collector  o'  the  Ancient  Ballads,  frae  which  ye 
have  chanted  so  speeritedly  the  speerited  "  Twa  Magicians." 
It's  a  capital  collection — and  should  be  added  in  a'  libraries, 
to  Percy,  and  Ritson,  and  Headley,  and  the  Minstrelsy  of 
the  Border,  and  John  Finlay,  and  Robert  Jamieson,  and 
Gilchrist  and  Kinloch,  and  the  Quarto  o'  that  clever  chiel, 
Motherwell  *  o'  Paisley,  wha's  no  only  a  gude  collector  and 

*  William  Motherwell,  born  in  1798,  the  author  of  some  spirited  ballada 
Jid  editor  of  Minstrelsy,  Ancient  and  Modern.    He  died  in  1835. 


Tickler  s  Ailments.  259 

commentator  o'  ballads,  but  a  gude  writer  o'  them  too — 
as  he  has  proved  by  that  real  poetical  address  o'  a  Northman 
to  his  Swurd  in  ane  o'  the  Annals.  Come  awa  doun,  sir — 
come  awa  doun.  Tak  tent,  for  the  steps  are  gey  shoggly.* 
Noo — sir — fa'  to  the  roun'. 

Tickler.  I  have  no  appetite,  James.  I  have  been  suffering 
all  night  under  a  complication  of  capital  complaints, — the 
toothache,  which  like  a  fine  attenuated  red-hot,  steel-sting, 
keeps  shooting  through  an  old  rugged  stump,  which  to  touch 
with  my  tongue  is  agony — the  tongue-ache,  from  a  blister  on 
that  weapon,  that  I  begin  to  fear  may  prove  cancerous — 
the  lip-ache,  from  having  accidentally  given  myself  a  labial 
wound  in  sucking  out  an  oyster — the  eye-ache,  as  if  an 
absolute  worm  were  laying  eggs  in  the  pupil — the  ear-ache, 
tinglin  and  stouninf  to  the  very  brain,  till  my  drum  seems 
beating  for  evening  parade — to  which  add  a  headache  of  the 
hammer-and-anvil  kind — and  a  stomach-ache,  that  seems  to 
intimate  that  dyspepsy  is  about  to  be  converted  into  cholera 
morbus  ;  and  you  have  a  partial  enumeration  of  the  causes 
that  at  present  deaden  my  appetite — and  that  prevented  me 
from  chanting  the  ballad  with  my  usual  vivacity.  However 
— I  will  trouble  you  for  a  duck. 

Shepherd.  You  canna  be  in  the  least  pain,  wi'  sae  mony 
complaints  as  these — for  they  maun  neutraleeze  ane  anither. 
But  even  if  they  dinna,  I  believe  mysel,  wi'  the  Stoics,  that 
-pain's  nae  evil. — Dinna  you,  Mr.  North  ? 

North.  Certainly.  But  Tickler,  you  know,  has  many  odd 
crotchets. 

Ambrose  (entering  with  his  suavest  physiognomy).  Beg  par 
don,  Mr.  North,  for  venturing  in  unrung,  but  there's  a  young 
lady  wishing  to  speak  with  you — 

Shepherd.  A  young  lady  ! — show  her  ben. 

*  Shoggly — shaky.  t  Sfounin — aching. 


260  North's  Nightcap. 

North.  An  anonymous  article  ? 

Ambrose.  No,  sir, — Miss  Helen  Sandford,  from  the  Lodge. 

North.  Helen  ! — what  does  she  want  ? 

Ambrose.  Miss  Sandford  had  got  alarmed,  sir — 

Shepherd.  Safe  us  !  only  look  at  the  timepiece  !  Four 
o'clock  in  the  mornin  ! 

Ambrose.  And  has  walked  up  from  the  Lodge — 

North.  What  ?     Alone  ! 

Ambrose.  No,  sir.  Her  father  is  with  her — and  she  bids 
me  say — now  that  she  knows  her  master  is  well — that  here 
is  your  Kilmarnock  nightcap. 

[Mr.    NORTH  submits  his   head  to    PICAKDY,  who 
adjusts  the  nightcap. 

Shepherd.  What  a  cowl ! 

North.  A  capote — James.  Mr.  Ambrose, — we  three  must 
sleep  here  all  night. 

Shepherd.  A'  mornin,  ye  mean.  Tak  care  o'  Tickler  amang 
ye — but  recolleck  it's  no  safe  to  wauken  sleepin  dowgs. — 
Oh!  man!  Mr.  North!  sir!  but  that  was  touchin  attention 
in  puir  Eelen.  She's  like  a  dochter,  indeed. — Come  awa, 
you  auld  vagabon,  to  your  bed.  I'll  kick  open  the  door 
o'  your  dormitory  wi'  my  fit,  as  I  pass  alaug  the  transe  in 
the  mornin !  The  mornin  !  Faith,  I'm  beginnin  already  to 
get  hungry  for  breakfast !  Come  awa,  you  auld  vagabon 
—come  awa. 

[Exeunt  NORTH  and  SHEPHERD,  followed  by  the  Height 
of  TICKLER,  to  Roost. 

NORTH  (singing  as  they  go)— 

"  Early  to  bed,  and  early  to  rise, 
IB  the  way  to  be  healthy,  wealthy,  and  wise  ! " 

Da  Capo. 


XVIII. 

IN  WHICH  THE  SHEPHERD,  HAVING  SKATED  FROM 
YARROW, TAKES  A  PLOUTER. 

SCENE  I. —  The  Snuggery.     Time, — Nine  in  the  Evening. 
NORTH  and  TICKLER. 

Tickler.  Replenish.  That  last  jug  was  most  illustrious.  1 
wish  James  were  here. 

North.  Hush !  hark  !  It  must  be  he  ! — and  yet  'tis  not  just 
the  pastoral  tread  either  of  the  Bard  of  Benger.  "  Alike,  but 
oh  !  how  different !  " 

Tickler.  "  His  very  step  has  music  in't  as  he  comes  up  the 
stair ! " 

Shepherd  (bursting  in  with  a  bang).  Huzzaw  !  Huzzaw  1 
Huzzaw ! 

North.  God  bless  you,  James  ;  your  paw,  my  dear  Sus. 

Shepherd.     Fresh  frae  the  Forest,  in  three  hours — 

Tickler.  What !  thirty-six  miles  ? 

North.  So  it  is  true  that  you  have  purchased  the  famous 
American  trotter  ? 

Shepherd.  Nae  trotters  like  my  ain  trotters  !  I've  won  ray 
bate,  sirs. 

North.  Bet? 

Shepherd.  Ay, — a  bate, — a  bate  o'  twenty  guineas. 
Tickler.  What  the  deuce  have  you  got  on  your  feet,  James  ? 

261 


262  The  Shepherd  arrives. 

Shepherd.  Skites.*  I've  skited  frae  St.  Mary's  Loch  to 
the  Canawl  Basin  in  fowre  minutes  and  a  half  within  the 
three  hours,  without  turnin  a  hair. 

Tickler.  Do  keep  a  little  farther  off,  James,  for  your  face 
has  waxed  intolerably  hot,  and  I  perceive  that  you  have 
raised  the  thermometer  a  dozen  degrees. 

Shepherd  (Jlinging  a  purse  of  gold  on  the  table).  It  'ill 
require  a  gey  strang  thaw  to  melt  that,  chiels ;  sae  tak  your 
change  out  o'  that,  as  Josephf  says,  either  in  champagne,  or 
yill,  or  porter,  or  Burgundy,  or  cedar,  or  Glenlivet — just  what- 
somever  you  like  best  to  drink  or  devoor  ;  and  we  shanna 
be  lang  without  supper,  for  in  coming  alang  the  transe  1 
shooted  to  Tappy  toorie  forthwith  to  send  in  samples  o'  all  the 
several  eatables  and  drinkables  in  Picardy.  I'm  desperate 
hungry.  Lowse  my  skites,  Tickler. 

[TICKLER  succumbs  to  unthong  the  SHEPHERD'S  skates. 

Tickler.  What  an  instep  ! 

Shepherd.  Ay,  nane  o'  your  plain  soles,  that  gang  shiffle- 
shaffling  amang  the  chuckystanes  assassinatin  a'  the  insects ; 
but  a  foot  arched  like  Apollo's  bow  when  he  shot  the  Python 
— heel,  of  a  firm  and  decided  but  unobtrusive  character — and 
taes,  ilka  ane  a  thocht  larger  than  the  ither,  like  a  family  o 
childer,  or  a  flight  o'  steps  leading  up  to  the  pillared  portico 
o'  a  Grecian  temple. 

(Enter  Signer  AMBROSIO  susurrans  with  IT  below  his  arm.) 

Shepherd.  That's  richt — 0  but  Greeny  has  a  gran'  gurgle  ! 
A  mouthfu'  o'  Millbank  never  comes  amiss.     Oh !    but  it's 
potent !  (gruing).     I  wuss  it  be  na  ile  o'  vitrol. 

North.  James,  enlighten  our  weak  minds. 

Shepherd.  An  English  bagman,  you  see — he's  unco  fond  o' 
poetry  and  the  picturesque,  a  traveller  in  the  soft  line — paid 
me  a  visit  the  day  just  at  dermer-time,  in  a  yellow  gig, 

*  Skites— skates.  t  Joseph  Hume. 


His  Bet  with  the  Bagman.  263 

drawn  by  a  chestnut  blude  meer ;  and  after  we  had  discussed 
the  comparative  merits  o'  my  poems,  and  Lord  Byron's,  and 
Sir  Walter's,  he  rather  attributin  to  me,  a'  things  considered, 
the  superiority  over  baith,  it's  no  impossible  that  my  freen 
got  rather  fuddled  a  wee,  for,  after  roosin  his  meer  to  the 
skies,  as  if  she  were  fit  for  Castor  himsel  to  ride  upon  up  and 
doun  the  blue  lift,  frae  less  to  mair  he  offered  to  trot  her  in 
the  gig  into  Embro',  against  me  on  the  best  horse  in  a'  my 
stable,  and  gie  me  a  half-hour's  start  before  puttin  her  into 
the  shafts  ;  when,  my  birses  being  up,  faith  I  challenged  him, 
on  the  same  condition,  to  rin  him  intil  Embro'  on  shank's 
naigie.* 

North.  What !  biped  against  quadruped  ? 

Shepherd.  Just.  The  cretur,  as  sune  as  he  came  to  the 
clear  understandin  o'  my  meanin,  gied  ane  o'  these  bitcreenk- 
lin  cackles  o'  a  Cockney  lauch,  that  can  only  be  forgiven  by 
a  Christian  when  his  soul  is  saften'd  by  the  sunny  hush  o'  a 
Sabbath  morning. 

North.  Forgotten,  perhaps,  James,  but  not  forgiven. 

Shepherd.  The  batef  was  committed  to  black  and  white  ; 
and  then  on  wi'  my  skites,  and  awa  like  a  reindeer. 

Tickler.  What  ?  down  the  Yarrow  to  Selkirk — then  up  the 
Tweed. 

Shepherd.  Na,  na  !  naething  like  keepin  the  high-road  for 
safety  in  a  ski  ting-match.  There  it  was — noo  s-tretchin 
straught  afore  me,  noo  serpenteezin  like  a  great  congor  eel, 
and  noo  amaist  coilin  itself  up  like  a  sleepin  adder ;  but 
whether  straught  or  crooked  or  circling,  ayont  a'  imagina 
tion  sliddery,  sliddery  ! 

Tickler.  Confound  me — if  I  knew  that  we  had  frost. 

Shepherd.  That  comes  o'  trustin  till  a  barometer  to  tell  you 
when  things  hae  come  to  the  freezin-pint.  Frost !  The  ice 

*  On  shank's  naigie—on  foot.  t  Bate— bet. 


264  The  Shepherd's  Velocity. 

is  fourteen  feet  thick  in  the  Loch — and  though  you  hae  nae 
frost  about  Embro'  like  our  frost  in  the  Forest,  yet  I  wadna 
advise  you,  Mr.  Tickler,  to  put  your  tongue  on  the  airn-rim 
o'  a  cart  or  cotch-wheel. 

North.  I  remember,  James,  being  beguiled — sixty-four 
years  ago ! —  by  a  pretty  little,  light-haired,  blue-eyed  lassie, 
one  starry  night  of  black  frost,  just  to  touch  a  cart-wheel  for 
one  moment  with  the  tip  of  my  tongue. 

Shepherd.  What  a  gowmeril !  * 

North.  And  the  bonny  May  had  to  run  all  the  way  to 
the  manse  for  a  jug  of  hot  water  to  relieve  me  from  that 
bondage* 

Shepherd.  You  had  a  gude  excuse,  sir,  for  geein  the  cutty 
a  gude  kissin. 

North.  How  fragments  of  one's  past  existence  come  sud 
denly  flashing  back  upon — 

Shepherd.  Hoo  I  snooved  alang  the  snaw  !  Like  a  verra 
curlin-stane,  when  a  dizzen  besoms  are  soopin  the  ice  afor't 
and  the  granite  gangs  groanin  gloriously  alang,  as  if  in 
stinct  wi'  spirit,  and  the  water-kelpie  below  strives  in  vain 
to  keep  up  wi'  the  straight-forrit  planet,  still  accompanied 
as  it  spins  wi'  a  sort  o'  spray,  like  the  shiverin  atoms  of 
diamonds,  and  wi'  a  noise  to  which  the  hills  far  and  near 
respond,  like  a  water-quake — the  verra  ice  itself  seeinin  at 
times  to  sink  and  swell,  just  as  if  the  Loch  were  a  great 
wide  glitterin  tin-plate,  beaten  out  by  that  cunnin  white 
smith,  Wunter — and — 

Tickler.  And  every  mouth,  in  spite  of  frost,  thaws  to  the 
thought  of  corned  beef  and  greens. 

Shepherd.  Hoo  I  snooved  alang !  Some  collies  keepit 
geyan  weel  up  wi'  me  as  far's  Traquair  manse — but  ere  I 
crossed  the  Tweed  my  canine  tail  had  drapped  quite  away, 

*  Gowmeril — fool. 


Between  the  Loch  and  Edinburgh.  265 

and  I   had   but   the    company   of    a    couple   of    crows  to 
Peebles. 

North.  Did  you  dine  on  the  road,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  had  dined  before  I  set  off  ?  I 
ettled  at  a  cauker  at  Eddlestone — but  in  vain  attempted  to 
moderate  my  velocity  as  I  neared  the  village,  and  had  merely 
time  to  fling  a  look  to  my  worthy  friend  the  minister,  as  I 
flew  by  that  tree-hidden  manse  and  its  rill-divided  garden, 
beautiful  alike  in  dew  and  in  cranreuch  ! 

Tickler.  Helpless  as  Mazeppa  ! 

Shepherd.  It's  far  worse  to  be  ridden  aff  wi'  by  ane's  ain 
sowl  than  by  the  wildest  o'  the  desert  loon. 

North.  At  this  moment,  the  soul  seems  running  away  with 
the  body, — at  that,  the  body  is  off  with  the  soul.  Spirit  and 
matter  are  playing  at  fast  and  loose  with  each  other — and  at 
full  speed  you  get  skeptical  as  Spinoza. 

Shepherd.  Sometimes  the  ruts  are  for  miles  thegither  regular 
as  railroads — and  your  skite  gets  fitted  intil  a  groove,  sae  that 
you  can  baud  out  ane  o'  your  legs  like  an  opera  dancer  playin 
a  peeryette,  and  on  the  ither  glint  by,  to  the  astonishment  o' 
toll-keepers,  who  at  first  suspect  you  to  be  on  horseback — 
then  that  you  may  be  a  bird — and  feenally  that  you  must  be 
a  ghost. 

Tickler.  Did  you  upset  any  carriages,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Nane  that  I  recollect.  I  saw  severals — but 
whether  they  were  coming  or  going — in  motion  or  at  rest,  it 
is  not  for  me  to  say — but  they,  and  the  hills,  and  woods,  and 
clouds,  seemed  a'  to  be  floatin  awa  tbegither  in  the  direction 
o'  the  mountains  at  the  head  o'  Clydesdale. 

Tickler.  And  where  all  this  while  was  the  bagman  ? 

Shepherd.  Wanderin,  nae  doubt,  a'  a-foam,  leagues  ahint ; 
for  the  chestnut  meer  was  weel  cauked,  and  she  ance  won  a 
king's  plate  at  Doncaster.  You  may  hae  seen,  Mr.  North,  a 


266  Pulls  up  at  the  Pentlands. 

cloud-giant  on  a  stormy  day  striding  alang  the  sky,  coverin  a 
parish  wi'  ilka  stretch  o'  his  spawl,*  and  pausin,  aiblins,  to 
tak  his  breath  now  and  then  at  the  meetin  o'  twa  counties ; 
if  sae,  you  hae  seen  an  image  o'  me — only  he  was  in  the 
heavens,  and  I  on  the  yearth — he  an  unsubstantial  phantom, 
and  I  twal  stane  wecht — he  silent  and  sullen  in  his  flight,  I 
musical  and  merry  in  mine — 

Tickler.  But  on  what  principle  came  you  to  stop,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Luckily,  the  Pentland  Hills  came  to  my  succor. 
By  means  of  one  of  their  ridges  I  got  gradually  rid  of  a  por 
tion  of  my  velocity — subdued  down  into  about  seven  miles  an 
hour,  which  rate  got  gradually  diminished  to  about  four  ;  and 
here  I  am,  gentlemen,  after  having  made  a  narrow  escape 
from  a  stumble,  that  in  York  Place  threatened  to  set  me  off 
again  down  Leith  Walk,  in  which  case  I  must  have  gone  on 
to  Portobello  or  Musselburgh. 

North.  Well,  if  I  did  not  know  you,  my  dear  James,  to  be 
a  matter-of-fact  man,  I  should  absolutely  begin  to  entertain 
some  doubts  of  your  veracity. 

Shepherd.     What  the  deevil's  that  hingin  f rae  the  roof  ? 

North.  Why,  the  chandelier. 

Shepherd.  The  shandleer  ?  It's  a  cage,  wi'  an  outlandish 
bird  in't.  A  pawrot,  I  declare  !  Pretty  Poll  !  Pretty  Poll ! 
Pretty  Poll! 

Parrot.  Go  to  the  devil  and  shake  yourself. 

Shepherd.  Heaven  preserve  us  ! — heard  you  ever  the  likes 
o'  that  ? — A  bird  cursin  !  What  sort  o'  an  education  must 
the  cretur  hae  had  ?  Poor  beast,  do  you  ken  what  you're 
sayin  ? 

Parrot.  Much  cry  and  little  wool,  as  the  devil  said  when 
he  was  shearin  the  Hog. 

Shepherd.  You're  gettin  personal,  sir,  or  madam,  for  I 
dinna  pretend  to  ken  your  sex. 

*  Spawl— shoulder. 


North's  Familiars.  267 

North.  That  e¥erybody  does,  James,  who  has  anything  to 
do  with  Blackwood's  Magazine. 

Shepherd.  True  enough,  sir.  If  it  wad  but  keep  a  gude 
tongue  in  its  head — it's  really  a  bonny  cretur.  What  plum- 
mage  !  What'ill  you  hae,  Polly,  for  sooper  ? 

Parrot. — 

Molly  put  the  kettle  on, 
Molly  put  the  kettle  on, 
Molly  put  the  kettle  on, 
And  I  shall  have  some  punch, 

Shepherd.  That's  fearsome — yet,  whisht !     What  ither  vice 
was  that  speakin  ?     A  gruff  vice.     There  again !    whisht ! 
Voice. — 

The  devil  he  came  to  olir  town, 
And  rode  away  wi'  the  exciseman. 

Shepherd.  This  room's  no  canny.  I'm  aff  (rising  to  go). 
Mercy  me  !  A  raven  hoppin  aneath  the  sideboard  !  Look  at 
him,  how  he  turns  his  great  big  broad  head  to  the  ae  side, 
and  keeps  regardin  me  wi'  an  evil  eye  !  Satan  1 

North.  My  familiar,  James. 

Shepherd.  Whence  cam  he  ? 

North.  One  gloomy  night  I  heard  him  croakin  in  the 
garden. 

Shepherd.  You  did  wrang,  sir, — it  was  rash  to  let  him  in  ; 
wha  ever  heard  o'  a  real  raven  in  a  surburban  garden  ?  It's 
some  demon  pretendin  to  be  a  raven.  Only  look  at  him  wi' 
the  silver  ladle  in  his  bill.  Noo  he  draps  it,  and  is  ruggin  at 
the  Turkey  carpet,  as  if  he  were  colleckin  lining  for  his  nest. 
Let  alane  the  carpet,  you  ugly  villain ! 
Raven.  The  devil  would  a  wooin  go — ho-ho !  the  wooin,  ho  !  * 

*  Dickens'  incomparable  raven  in  Barnaby  Rudge  would  have  been  quite 
at  home  in  this  party  ;  and  appears,  indeed,  to  have  taken  a  lesson  in  house 
hold  economy  from  North's  parrot. 


268  A  Serenade  by  "  Sooty." 

Shepherd.  Ay — ay — you  hear  how  it  is,  gentleman — "  Love 
is  a*  the  theme  " — 

Jtaven.  "  To  woo  his  bonny  lassie  when  the  kye  come 
hame !  " 

Shepherd.  Satan  singin  ane  o'  my  sangs  !     Frae  this  hour 
I  forswear  poetry. 
Voice. — 

O  love— love— love, 
lovn's  like  a  dizziness. 

Shepherd.  What !  another  voice  ? 

Tickler.  James — James — he's  on  your  shoulder. 

Shepherd  (starting  up  in  great  emotion).  Wha's  on  my 
shouther  ? 

North.  Only  Matthew. 

Shepherd.  Puir  bit  bonny  burdie  !  What !  you're  a  Stirling, 
are  you  ?  Ay — ay — just  pick  and  dab  awa  there  at  the  hair 
in  my  lug.  Yet  I  wad  rather  see  you  fleein  and  tiutterin  in 
and  out  o'  a  bit  hole  aneath  a  wall-flower  high  up  on  some 
auld  and  ruined  castle  standin  by  itsel  among  the  woods. 

Haven. — 

O  love— love— love, 
Love's  like  a  dizziness. 

Shepherd.  Rax  me  ower  the  poker,  Mr.  North— or  lend  me 
your  crutch,  that  I  may  brain  Sooty. 
Starling' — 

It  wunna  let  a  puir  bodie 
Gang  about  his  bissiness. 

Parrot.  Fie,  whigs,  awa — fie,  whigs,  awa. 
Shepherd.  Na — the  bird  doesna  want  sense. 
Raven. — 

The  deil  sat  girnin  in  a  neuk, 
Riving  sticks  to  roast  the  Duke. 

Shepherd.  Oh  ho  !  you  are  fond  of  picking  up  Jacobite  relics. 


The  Shepherd  retires.  269 

Raven.  Ho  !  blood — blood — blood — blood — blood  ! 

Shepherd.  What  do  you  mean,  you  sinner  ? 

Raven.  Burke  him — Burke  him — Burke  him.  Ho— ho 
bo — blood — blood — blood  ! 

Bronte.  Bow — wow — wow. — Bow — wow — wow. — Bow 
wow — wow. 

Shepherd.  A  complete  aviary,  Mr.  North.  Weel,  that's  a 
sight  worth  lookin  at-  Bronte  lying  on  the  rug — never  per- 
ceivin  that  it's  on  the  tap  o'  a  worsted  teegger — a  raven, 
either  real  or  pretended,  amusin  himsel  wi'  ruggin  at  the 
dowg's  toosey  tail — the  pawrot,  wha  maun  hae  opened  the 
door  o'  his  cage  himsel,  sittin  on  Bronte's  shouther — and  the 
Stirling,  Matthew,  hidin  himsel  ahint  his  head — no  less  than 
four  irrational  creturs,  as  they  are  called,  on  the  rug — each 
wi'  a  natur  o'  its  ain  ;  and  then  again  four  rational  creturs, 
as  they  are  called,  sittin  round  them  on  chairs — each  wi'  his 
specific  character  too — and  the  aught  makin  ane  aggregate 
— or  whole — of  parts  not  unharmoniously  combined. 

North.  Why,  James,  there  are  but  three  of  the  rationals. 

Shepherd.  I  find  I  was  countin  mysel  twice  over. 

Tickler.  Now  be  persuaded,  my  dear  Shepherd,  before 
supper  is  brought  ben,  to  take  a  warm  bath,  and  then  rig 
yourself  out  in  your  Sunday  suit  of  black,  which  Mr.  Ambrose 
keeps  sweet  for  you  in  his  own  drawer,  bestrewed  with  sprigs 
of  thyme,  whose  scent  fadeth  not  for  a  century. 

Shepherd.  Faith,  I  think  I  shall  tak  a  plouter.  * 
[SHEPHERD   retires  into  the  marble   bath  adjoining  the    Snug 
gery.      The  hot  water  is  let  on  with  a  mighty  noise. 

North.  Do  you  want  the  flesh-brushes,  James  ? 

Shepherd  (from  within).  I  wish  I  had  some  female  slaves,, 
wi'  wooden  swurds  to  scrape  me  wi',  like  the  Shah  o'  Persia. 

Tickler.  Are  you  in,  James  ? 

*  Plouter — a  bathe  accompanied  with  splashing. 


270  "  Apollo  in  the  Het  Bath:9 

Shepherd.  Hearken  ! — 
[rl  sullen  plunge  is  heard,  as  of  a  huge  stone  into  the  deep-down 

waters  of  a  draw-well. 

North  (looking  at  his  watch).  Two  minutes  have  elapsed. 
I  hope,  Tickler,  nothing  apoplectical  has  occurred. 
Shepherd.  Blow — o — wo — ho — wro  ! 
Tickler.  Why,  Janies — 

"  You  are  gurgling  Italian  half-way  down  your  throat." 

North.  What  temperature,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Nearly  up  at  egg-boiling.  But  you  had  better, 
sirs,  be  makin  anither  jug — for  that  ane  was  geyan  sair  dune 
afore  I  left  you — and  I  maun  hae  a  glass  of  het-and-het  as 
sune  as  I  come  out,  to  prevent  me  takin  the  cauld.  I  hope 
there's  nae  current  o'  air  in  the  room.  Wha's  this  that  bled 
himsel  to  death  in  a  bath  ?  Wasna't  Seneca  ? 

North.  James,  who  is  the  best  female  poet  of  the  age  ? 

Shepherd.  Female  what  ? 

Tickler.  Poet. 

Shepherd.  Hand  your  tongue,  ye  sinner.  What !  you  are 
for  drawin  a  pictur  o'  me  as  Apollo  in  the  het  bath  surrounded 
wi'  the  Muses  ?  That  would  be  a  fine  subject  for  Etty. 

North.  Isn't  his  "  Judith  and  Holofernes,"  my  dear  Shep 
herd,  a  noble,  a  majestic  performance  ? 

Shepherd.  Yon's  colorin  !  Judith's  richt  leg's  as  flesh-like 
as  my  ain,  noo  lyin  on  the  rim  o'  the  bath,  and  maist  as 
muscular. 

Tickler.  Mot  so  hairy,  though,  James. 

Shepherd.  I'm  geyan  weel  sodden  noo,  and  I  think  I'll 
come  out.  Ring  the  bell,  sir,  for  my  black  claes. 

North.  I  have  been  toasting  your  shirt,  James,  at  the  fire. 
— Will  you  come  out  for  it  ? 

Shepherd.  Fling't  in  at  the  door.  Thank  you,  sir.  Ho  ! 
here's  the  claes,  I  declare,  hingiu  on  the  tenters.  Is  that 


The  Shepherd  in  Sables.  271 

sooper  coming  in  ?  Noo,  I'm  rubbed  down — ae  stockin  on — 
anither — noo,  the  flannen  drawers — and  noo,  the  breeks. — 
Oh  !  but  that  turkey  has  a  gran'  smell !  Mr.  Awmrose,  ma 
slippers  ?  Noo  for't. 

{The  SHEPHERD  reappears  in  full  sables,  blooming) 

like  a  rose.) 

North.  Come  away,  my  dear  Shepherd.  Is  he  not,  Tickler, 
like  a  black  eagle  that  has  renewed  his  youth  ? 

\They  take  their  seats  at  the  Supper-table. — Mulliga 
tawny — Roasted  Turkey — Fillet  of  Veal — Soles — 
a  Pie — and  the  Cold  Round — Potatoes — Oysters, 
frc.  frc.  Sfc.  frc.  frc. 

North.  The  turkey  is  not  a  large  one,  James,  and  after  a 
thirty-six  miles'  run,  I  think  you  had  better  take  it  on  your 
plate. 

Shepherd.  Na,  na,  sir.  Just  set  the  ashet  afore  me — tak 
you  the  fillet — gie  Tickler  the  pie — and  noo,  let  us  hae  some 
discourse  about  the  fine  airts. 

(Supper.) 

Shepherd.  In  another  month,  sirs,  the  Forest  will  be  as  green 
as  the  summer  sea  rolling  in  its  foam-crested  waves  in  moon 
light.  You  maun  come  out — you  maun  baith  come  out  this 
spring. 

North.  I  will.  Every  breath  of  air  we  draw  is  terrestrial- 
ized  or  etherealized  by  imagination.  Our  suburban  air,  round 
about  Edinburgh,  especially  down  towards  the  sea,  must  be 
pure,  James ;  and  yet,  my  fancy  being  haunted  by  these 
easterly  haurs,*  the  finest  atmosphere  often  seems  to  me  afloat 
with  the  foulest  atoms.  My  mouth  is  as  a  vortex,  that  en 
gulfs  all  the  stray  wool  and  feathers  in  the  vicinity.  In  the 
country,  and  nowhere  more  than  on  the  Tweed  or  the  Yar 
row,  I  inhale  always  the  gas  of  Paradise.  I  look  about  me 

*  ffaur—a.  chill,  foggy,  easterly  wind. 


272  The  Dawn  of  Day. 

for  flowers,  and  I  see  none — but  I  feel  the  breath  of  thousands. 
Country  smoke  from  cottages  or  kilns,  or  burning  heather,  is 
not  like  town  smoke.  It  ascends  into  clouds,  on  which  angels 
and  departed  spirits  may  repose. 

Shepherd.  O'  a'  kintra  soun's,  which  do  you  like  best,  sir  ? 

North.  The  crowing  of  cocks  before,  at,  and  after  sunrise. 
They  are  like  clocks  all  set  by  the  sun.  Some  hoarsely 
scrauching,  James, — some  with  a  long,  clear,  silver  chime — • 
and  now  and  then  a  bit  bantam  crowing  twice  for  the  statelier 
chanticleer's  once — and,  by  fancy's  eye,  seen  strutting  and 
sliding  up,  in  his  impudence,  to  hens  of  the  largest  size,  not 
una  verse  to  the  flirtation  of  the  feathery -legged  coxcomb. 

Shepherd.  Few  folk  hae  seen  oftener  than  me  Natur  gettin 
up  i'  the  mornin.  It's  no  possible  to  help  personifyin  her 
first  into  a  goddess,  and  then  into  a  human — 

Tickler.  There  again,  James. 

Shepherd.  She  sleeps  a'  nicht  in  her  claes,  yet  they're  never 
runkled ;  her  awakening  face  she  turns  up  dewy  to  the  sun, 
and  Zephyr  wipes  it  wi'  his  wing  without  disturbin  its 
dreamy  expression  never  see  ye  her  hair  in  papers,  for  crisp 
and  curly,  far-streamin,  and  wide-waven  are  her  locks,  as 
alternate  shadows  and  sunbeams  dancin  on  the  daucin  music 
o'  some  joyous  river  rollin  awa  to  the  far-aff  sea ;  her  ee  is 
heaven — her  brow  the  marble  clouds  ;  and  after  a  lang  doun- 
gazing,  serene,  and  spiritual  look  o'  hersel,  breathin  her 
orison-prayers,  in  the  reflectin  magic  o'  some  loch  like  an 
inland  ocean,  stately  steps  she  frae  the  east,  and  a'  that  meet 
her — mair  especially  the  Poet,  wha  draps  doun  amid  the 
heather  in  devotion  on  his  knees — kens  that  she  is  indeed  the 
Queen  of  the  whole  Universe. 

Tickler.     Incedit  Regina. 

North.  Then,  what  a  breakfast  at  Mount  Benger,  after  a 
stroll  to  and  fro'  the  Loch !  One  devours  the  most  material 


«  Caller  Eggs  and  Caller  ffaddies."  273 

breakfast  spiritually  ;  and  none  of  the  ethereal  particles  are 
lost  in  such  a  meal. 

Shepherd.  Ethereal  particles  !     What  are  they  like  ? 

North.  Of  the  soul,  James.  Wordsworth  says,  in  his  own 
beautiful  way,  of  a  sparrow's  nest : — 

"  Lck)k,  five  blue  eggs  are  gleaming  there  I 
Few  visions  have  I  seen  more  fair, 
Nor  many  prospects  of  delight 
More  touching  than  that  simple  sight !  " 

But  five  or  six,  or  perhaps  a  dozen,  white  hen-eggs  gleaming 
there — all  on  a  most  lovely,  a  most  beautiful,  a  most  glorious 
round  white  plate  of  crockery — is  a  sight  even  more  simple 
and  more  touching  still. 

Tickler.  What  a  difference  between  caller  eggs  and  caller 
baddies ! 

North.  About  the  same  as  between  a  rural  lassie  stepping 
along  the  greensward,  like  a  walking  rose  or  lily  endued 
with  life  by  the  touch  of  a  fairy's  wand,  and  a  lodging-house 
Girrzzie  laying  down  a  baikie*  fu'  o'  ashes  at  the  mouth  of  a 
common  stair. 

Shepherd.  North,  you're  a  curious  cretur. 

Tickler.  You  must  excuse  him — for  he  is  gettin  into  his 
pleasant  though  somewhat  prosy  dotage. 

Shepherd.  A'  men  begin  to  get  into  a  kind  o'  dotage  after 
five-and-twunty.  They  think  theirsels  wiser,  but  they're 
only  stupider.  The  glory  o'  the  heaven  and  earth  has  a* 
flown  by  ;  there's  something  gane  wrang  wi'  the  machinery  o' 
the  peristrephic  panorama,  and  it  'ill  no  gang  roun', — nor 
is  there  ony  great  matter,  for  the  colors  hae  faded  on 
the  canvas,  and  the  spirit  that  pervaded  the  picture  is 
dead. 

Tickler    Poo,  poo,  James.     You're  haverin. 

*  Baikie — a  kind  of  scuttle  for  ashes. 


274  The  Vision  and  Faculty  Divine. 

North.  Do  you  think,  my  dear  James,  that  there  is  lesi 
religion  now  than  of  old  in  Scotland  ? 

Shepherd.  I  really  canna  say,  sir.  At  times  I  think  there 
is  even  less  sunshine.  .  .  .  Ony  new  poets  spurtin  up,  sir, 
amang  us,  like  fresh  daisies  amang  them  that's  withered  ? 
Noo  that  the  auld  cocks  are  cowed,  are  the  chickens  beginning 
to  flap  their  wings  and  craw  ? 

Tickler.  Most  of  them  mere  poultry,  James. 

North.  Not  worth  plucking. 

Shepherd.  It's  uncomprehensible,  sir,  to  me  altogether, 
what  that  something  is  that  ae  man  only,  amang  many  million, 
has  that  makes  him  poetical,  while  a'  the  lave  remain  to  the 
day  o'  their  death  prosaic  ?  I  defy  you  to  put  your  finger  on 
ae  pint  o'  his  mental  character  or  constitution  in  which  the 
secret  lies — indeed,  there's  aften  a  sort  o'  stupidity  about  the 
cretur  that  maks  you  sorry  for  him,  and  he's  very  generally 
laucht  at ; — yet  there's  a  superiority  in  the  strain  o'  his 
thochts  and  feelings  that  places  him  on  a  level  by  himsel 
aboon  a'  their  heads ;  he  has  intuitions  o'  the  truth,  which, 
depend  on't,  sir,  does  not  lie  at  the  bottom  of  a  well,  but 
rather  in  the  lift  o'  the  understanding  and  the  imagination — 
the  twa  hemispheres  ;  and  knowledge,  that  seems  to  flee 
awa  frae  ither  men  the  faster  and  the  farther  the  mair  eagerly 
it  is  pursued,  aften  comes  o'  its  ain  sweet  accord,  and  lies 
doun  at  the  poet's  feet. 

North.  Just  so.  The  power  of  the  soul  is  as  the  expression 
of  the  countenance — the  one  is  strong  in  faculties,  and  the 
other  beautiful  in  features,  you  cannot  tell  how — but  so  it  is, 
and  so  it  is  felt  to  be  ;  and  let  those  not  thus  endowed  by 
nature  either  try  to  make  souls  or  make  faces,  and  they 
only  become  ridiculous,  and  laughing-stocks  to  the  world. 
This  is  especially  the  case  with  poets,  who  must  be  made  of 
finer  clay. 


The  Sorrows  of  the  Poor.  275 

Tickler.  Generally  cracked — 
Shepherd.  But  transpawrent — 
Tickler.  Yea,  an  urn  of  light. 

North.  There  is  something  most  affecting  in  the  natural 
sorrows  of  poor  men,  my  dear  Shepherd,  as,  after  a  few  days' 
wrestling  with  affliction,  they  appear  again  at  their  usual 
work — melancholy,  but  not  miserable. 

Shepherd.  You  ken  a  gude  deal,  sir,  about  the  life  and 
character  o'  the  puir ;  but  then  it's  frae  philosophical  and 
poetical  observation  and  sympathy — no  frae  art-and-part 
participation,  like  mine,  in  their  merriment  and  their 
meesery.  Folk  in  what  they  ca'  the  upper  classes  o'  society 
a'  look  upon  life,  mair  or  less,  as  a  scene  o'  enjoyment, 
and  amusement,  and  delicht.  They  get  a'  selfish  in  their 
sensibilities,  and  would  fain  mak  the  verra  laws  o'  natur 
obedient  to  their  wull.  Thus  they  cherish  and  encourage 
habits  o'  thocht  and  feeling  that  are  inaist  averse  to 
obedience  and  resignation  to  the  decrees  o'  the  Almighty 
— when  these  decrees  dash  in  pieces  small  the  idols  o'  their 
earthly  worship. 

North.  Too  true,  alas !  my  dearest  Shepherd. 

Shepherd.  Pity  me !  how  they  moan,  and  groan,  and  greet 
and  wring  their  hauns,  and  tear  their  hair,  even  auld  folk 
their  thin  grey  hair,  when  death  comes  into  the  bed-room,  or 
the  verra  drawing-room,  and  carries  aff  in  his  clutches  some 
wee  bit  spoiled  bairn,  yaummerin  *  amang  its  playthings,  or 
keepin  its  mither  awake  a'nicht  by  its  perpetual  cries  ! 

North.  Touch  tenderly,  James — on — 

Shepherd.  Ane  wad  think  that  nae  parents  had  ever  lost  a 
child  afore — yet  hoo  mony  a  sma'  funeral  do  you  see  ilka  day 
pacin  alang  the  streets  unheeded  on,  amang  the  carts  and 
hackney-coaches  ? 

*  Yaummerin — fretting. 


276  Undemonstrative  Sorrow. 

North.  Unheeded,  as  a  party  of  upholsterer's  men  carrying 
furniture  to  a  new  house. 

Shepherd.  There  is  little  or  naething  o'  this  thochtless. 
this  senseless  clamor  in  kintra-houses,  when  the  cloud  o* 
God's  judgment  passes  ower  them,  and  orders  are  gien  for 
a  grave  to  be  dug  in  the  kirkyard.  A'  the  house  is  hushed 
and  quate — just  the  same  as  if  the  patient  were  still  sick, 
and  no  gane  *  awa — the  father,  and  perhaps  the  mother,  the 
brothers,  and  the  sisters,  are  a'  gaun  about  their  ordinary 
business,  wi'  grave  faces  nae  doubt,  and  some  o'  them  now 
and  then  dichtin  the  draps  frae  their  eeii ;  but,  after  the 
first  black  day,  little  audible  greetin,  and  nae  indecent  and 
impious  outcries. 

North.  The  angler  calling  in  at  the  cottage  would  never 
know  that  a  corpse  was  the  cause  of  the  calm. 

Shepherd.  Rich  folk,  if  they  saw  sic  douce,f  composed 
ongoings,  wad  doubtless  wonder  to  think  hoo  callous,  hoo 
insensible  were  the  puir  ! — that  natur  had  kindly  denied  to 
them  those  fine  feelings  that  belong  to  cultivated  life !  But 
if  they  heard  the  prayer  o'  the  auld  man  at  riicht,  when  the 
survivin  family  were  on  their  knees  around  the  wa',  and  his 
puir  wife  neist  him  in  the  holy  circle,  they  wad  ken  better, 
and  confess  that  there  is  something  as  sublime  as  it  is  sin 
cere  and  simple  in  the  resignation  and  piety  of  those  humble 
Christians,  whose  doom  it  is  to  live  by  the  sweat  o'  their 
brow,  and  who  are  taught,  almost  frae  the  cradle  to  the 
grave,  to  feel  every  hour  they  breathe,  that  all  they  enjoy, 
and  all  they  suffer,  is  dropt  doun  frae  the  hand  o'  God 
almost  as  visibly  as  the  dew  or  the  hail, — and  hence  their 
faith  in  things  unseen  and  eternal  is  firm  as  their  belief  in 
things  seen  and  temporal — and  that  they  a'  feel,  sir,  when 
lettin  doun  the  coffin  into  the  grave ! 

*  Qane— Gone.  t  Douce— sedate 


TJie  Monotony  of  Scottish  Music.  277 

North.  Scottish  Music,  my  dear  James,  is  to  me  rather 
monotonous. 

Shepherd.  So  is  Scottish  Poetry,  sir.  It  has  nae  great 
range ;  but  human  natur  never  wearies  o'  its  ain  prime 
elementary  feelings.  A  man  may  sit  a  haill  nicht  by  his 
ingle,  wi'  his  wife  and  bairns,  without  either  thin  kin  or  feelin 
muckle ;  and  yet  he's  perfectly  happy  till  bed-time,  and  says 
his  prayers  wi'  fervent  gratitude  to  the  Giver  o'  a'  mercies. 
It's  only  whan  he's  beginnin  to  tire  o'  the  hummin  o'  the 
wheel,  or  o'  his  wife  flytin  at  the  weans,  or  o'  the  weans 
upsettin  the  stools,  or  ruggin  ane  anither's  hair,  that  his 
fancy  takes  a  very  poetical  flight  into  the  regions  o'  the 
Imagination.  Sae  lang's  the  heart  sleeps  amang  its  affec 
tions,  it  dwalls  upon  few  images  ;  but  these  images  may  be 
infinitely  varied  ;  and  when  expressed  in  words,  the  variety 
will  be  felt.  Sae  that,  after  a',  it's  scarcely  correct  to  ca' 
Scottish  Poetry  monotonous,  or  Scottish  Music  either,  ony 
mair  than  you  would  ca'  a  kintra  level,  in  bonny  gentle  ups 
and  downs,  or  a  sky  dull,  though  the  clouds  were  neither 
mony  nor  multiform  ;  a'  depends  upon  the  spirit.  Twa-three 
notes  may  mak  a  maist  beautifu'  tune,  twa-three  woody 
knowes  a  bonny  landscape  ;  and  there  are  some  bit  streams 
amang  the  hills,  without  ony  striking  or  very  peculiar 
scenery,  that  it's  no  possible  to  dauner  along  at  gloamin 
without  feelin  them  to  be  visionary,  as  if  they  flowed 
through  a  land  o'  glamour. 

North.  James,  I  wish  you  would  review  for  Maga  all  those 
fashionable  Novels — Novels  of  High  Life  ;  such  as  Pelham — 
the  Disowned — 

Shepherd.  I've  read  thae  twa,  and  they're  baith  gude.  But 
the  mair  I  think  on't,  the  profounder  is  my  conviction  that 
the  strength  o'  human  nature  lies  either  in  the  highest  or 
lowest  estate  of  life. 


278  North's  very  Nose 

Tickler.  Is  this  Taj  or  Tweed  salmon,  James? 

Shepherd.  Taj,  to  be  sure — it  has  the  Perthshire  accent, 
verj  pallateable.  But,  to  speak  plain,  thej  maj  baith  gang 
to  the  deevil  f or  me,  without  excitin  onj  mair  emotion  in  mj 
mind  than  jou  are  doin  the  noo,  Tickler,  bj  puttin  a  bit  o' 
cheese  on  jour  forefinger,  and  then,  bj  a  sharp  smack  on  the 
palm,  makin  the  mites  spang  into  jour  mouth. 

Tickler.  I  was  doing  no  such  thing,  Hogg. 

Shepherd.  North,  wasna  he  ? — Puir  auld  useless  bodj  !  he's 
asleep.  Age  will  tell.  He  canna  staun*  a  heavj  sooper  noo 
as  he  used  to  do — the  toddj  tells  noo  a  hantle  faster  f  upon 
him,  and  the  verra  fire  itself  drowzifies  him  noo  intil  a 
dwawm — na,  even  the  sound  o'  ane's  vice,  lang  continued, 
lulls  him  noo  half  or  haill  asleep,  especiallj  if  jour  talk 
like  mine  demands  thocht — and  there  indeed,  jou  see,  Mr. 
Tickler,  how  his  chin  fa's  doun  on  his  breast,  till  he  seems — 
but  for  a  slight  snore — the  image  o'  death.  Heaven  preserve 
us — onlj  listen  to  that !  Did  je  ever  hear  the  like  o'  that  ? 
What  is't  ?  Is't  a  musical  snuff-box  ?  or  what  is't  ?  Has  he 
gotten  a  wee  fairj  musical  snuff-box,  I  ask  jou,  Mr.  Tickler, 
within  the  nose  o'  him  ?  or  what  or  wha  is't  that's  plajin 
that  tune  ? 

Tickler.  It  is  indeed  equallj  beautiful  and  mjsterious. 

Shepherd.  I  never  heard  "  Auld  Langs jne  "  plajed  mair 
exactlj  in  a'  my  life. 

Tickler  «  List — 0  list !  if  ever  thou  didst  thj  dear  father 
loveJ" 

Shepherd  (going  up  on  tip-toes  to  Mr.  North,  and  putting  his 
ear  close  to  the  gentleman's  n  se).  Bj  all  that's  miraculous, 
he  is  snoring  "  Auld  Lang  syne  !  "  The  Eolian  harp's  naething 
to  that — it  canna  plaj  a  regular  tune — but  there's  no  a  sweeter, 
safter,  mair  pathetic  wund  instrument  in  being  than  his  nose. 

•  Staun— fltand.  t  A  hantle  faster- a.  good  deal  faster. 


Has  Music  in  it.  279 

Tickler.  I  have  often  heard  him,  James,  snore  a  few  notes 
very  sweetly,  but  never  before  a  complete  tune.  With  what 
powers  the  soul  is  endowed  in  dreams  ! 

Shepherd.  You  may  weel  say  that. — Harkee  !  he's  snorin't 
wi'  variations  !  I'm  no  a  Christian  if  he  hasna  gotten  into 
"  Maggie  Lauder."  He's  snorin  a  medley  in  his  sleep ! 

[TICKLER  and  the  SHEPHERD  listen  entranced. 

Tickler.  What  a  spirit-stirring  snore  is  his  u  Erin-go- 
bragh  !  " 

Shepherd.  A'  this  is  proof  o'  the  immortality  o'  the  sowl. 
Whisht — whisht !  [NORTH  snores  "  God  save  the  King." 
Ay — a  loyal  pawtriot  even  in  the  kingdom  o'  dreams  !  I  wad 
rather  hear  that  than  Catalan  in  the  King's  Anthem.  We 
maun  never  mention  this,  Mr.  Tickler.  The  warld  'ill  no 
belie ve't.  The  warld's  no  ripe  yet  for  the  belief  o'  sic  a 
mystery. 

Tickler.  His  nose,  James,  I  think,  is  getting  a  little  hoarse. 

Shepherd.  Less  o'  the  tenor  and  mair  o'  the  bass.  He  was 
a  wee  onto'  tune  there — and  Isuspeck  his  nose  wants  blawin. 
Hear  till  him  noo — "  Croppies,  lie  doun,"  I  declare ;  and  see 
how  he  is  clutchin  the  crutch. 

[NORTH  awakes,  and  for  a  moment  like  goshawk  stares  wild. 

North.  Yes — I  agree  with  you — there  must  be  a  dissolution. 

Shepherd.  A  dissolution ! 

North.  Yes — of  Parliament.  Let  us  have  the  sense  of  the 
people.  I  am  an  old  Whig— a  Whig  of  the  1688. 

Tickler  and  Shepherd.  Hurraw,  hurraw,  hurraw  !  Old  North, 
old  Eldon,  and  old  Colchester  for  ever !  Hurraw,  hurraw, 
hurraw  ! 

North.  No.  Old  Eldon  alone !  Give  me  the  Dolphin.  No. 
The  Ivy-Tower.  No  need  of  a  glass.  Let  us,  one  after  the 
other,  put  the  Ivy-Tower  to  our  mouth,  and  drink  him  in 
pure  Glenlivet. 


280  "WdMdon!" 

Shepherd.  OH  the  table  ! 
[The  SHEPHERD  and  TICKLER  offer  to  help  NORTH  to  mounl 

the  table. 

North.  Hands  off,  gentlemen !  I  scorn  assistance.  Look 
here ! 

[NORTH,  by  a  dexterous  movement,  swings  himself  off  his 
crutch  erect  on  the  table,  and  gives  a  helping  hand  first 
to  the  SHEPHERD  and  then  to  TICKLER. 

Shepherd.  That  feat  beats  the  snorin  a'  to  sticks  !  Faith, 
Tickler,  we  maun  sing  sma'.  In  a'  things  he's  our  maister. 
Alloo  me,  sir,  to  gang  doun  for  your  chair  ? 

North  (Jlinging  his  crutch  to  thereof). — OLD  ELDON  ! 
[Tremendous  cheering  amidst  the  breakage  by  the   descending 
crutch. 

Bronte.  Bow,  wow,  wow — wow,  wow — wow,  wow,  wow. 

(Enter  PICARDY  and  Tail  in  general  consternation.) 
Shepherd.  Luk  at  him  noo,  Picardy — luk  at  him  noo  ! 
Tickler.  Firm  on  his  pins  as  a  pillar  of  the  Parthenon  ! 
Shepherd.  Saw  ye  ever  a  pair  o'  strauchter,  mair  sinewy 
legs,  noo  that  he  leans  the  haill  wecht  o'  his  body  on  them  ? 
Ay,  wi*   that   outstretched  arm  he  stauns  like  a  statute  o 
Demosthenes,  about  to  utter  the  first  word  o'  ane  o'   his 
Philippics. 

[BRONTE   leaps   on  the  table,  and  stands  by  NORTH'S  knee 

with  a  determined  aspect. 

North.  Take  the  time  from  Bronte — OLD  COLCHESTER  ! 
Bronte.  Bow,  wow — wow,  wow — wow,  wow,  wow. 

[Loud  acclamations. 

Shepherd.  Come,  let's  dance  a  threesome  reel. 
North.  Picardy — your  fiddle. 

[MR.  AMBROSE  takes  "  Neil  Gow"  from  the  peg,  and  plays. 
Shepherd.  Hadna  we  better  clear  decks — 
North.    No — James.      In  my  youth  I    could   dance    the 


A  Threesome  Reel  281 

ancient  German  sword-dance,  as  described  by  Tacitus.  Sir 
David,  remove  the  Dolphin.  I  care  not  a  jot  for  the  rest  of 
the  crystal. 

[NORTH,  TICKLER,  and  the  SHEPHERD  tJirid  a  threesome 
reel — BRONTE  careering  round  the  table  in  a  Solo — 
PICARDY'S  bow-hand  in  high  condition. 

Shepherd.  Set  to  me,  sir,  set  to  me — never  mind  Tickler. 
Oh !  but  you're  matchless  at  the  Heelan  fling,  sir ! — Luk  at 
him,  Mr.  Awmrose ! 

Ambrose.  Yes,  Mr.  Hogg. 

Shepherd.  I'll  match  him  against  a'  the  Heelans— either  in 
breeks  or  out  o'  them — luk,  luk — see  him  cuttin ! 

[Mr.  NORTH  motions  to  PICARDY,  who  stops  playing,  and 
with  one  bound  leaps  from  the  centre  of  the  circular  over 
the  Ivy-Tower  to  thejloor.     SHEPHERD  and  TICKLER,  in 
attempting  to  imitate  the  great  original,  fall  on  the  floor, 
but  recover  their  feet  with  considerable  alacrity. 
North  (resuming  his  chair).     The  Catholic  Question  is  not 
carried  yet,  gentlemen.     Should  it  be,  let  it  be  ours  to  defend 
the  Constitution. 

Shepherd.  Speak  a wa,  sir,  till  I  recover  my  breath.  I'm 
sair  blawn-  Hear  Tickler's  bellows. 

Tickler  (stretching  his  weary  length  on  a  sofa).  Whew— 
whew — whew.  \Exit  PICARDY  with  his  Tail. 


XIX. 

72V  WHICH,  AFTER  SETTLING  OTHELLO,  NORTH 
FLOORS  THE  SHEPHERD. 

SCENE  1.— The  Snuggery.  Time, — Eight  o'clock.  The  Union 
Table,  with  Tea  and  Coffee  Pots,  and  the  O'Doherty  China-set 
— Cold  Round — Pies — Oysters — Rizzards — Pickled  Salmon, 
frc.,  $"c.,  $-c.  A  How-towdie  whirling  before  the  fire  over  a 
large  basin  of  mashed  Potatoes.  The  Boiler  on.  A  Bachelor's 
Kitchen  on  the  small  Oval.  A  Dumb  Waiter  at  each  end  of  the 
Union. 

NOKTH  and  SHEPHERD. 

Shepherd.  This  I  ca'  comfort,  sir.  Everything  within 
oursel — nae  need  to  ring  a  bell  the  leeve-lang  night — nae 
openin  o'  cheepin,  nae  shuttin  o'  clashin  doors — uae  trampin 
o'  waiters  across  the  carpet  wi'  creakiri  shoon — or  stumblin, 
clumsy  coofs,  to  the  great  spillin  o'  gravy — but  a'  things, 
eatable  and  uneatable,  either  hushed  into  a  cozy  calm, 
or — 

North.  Now  light,  James,  the  lamp  of  the  Bachelor's 
Kitchen  with  Tickler's  card,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
minus  five  minutes,  you  shall  scent  and  see  such  steaks  ! 

Shepherd.  Only  look  at  the  towdie,*  sir,  how  she  swings  sao 
granly  roun'  by  my  garters,  after  the  fashion  o'  a  planet.  It's 

*  Towdie  or  lioiv-tnwdiK—\  Kara-door  fowl. 
28' 


The  Doric  Tongue.  283 

a  beautiful  example  o'  centrifugal  attraction.  See  till  the  fat 
dreep-dreepin  in  til  the  ashet  o'  mashed  potawtoes,  oilifying 
the  crusted  brown  intil  a  mair  delicious  richness  o'  mixed 
vegetable  and  animal  maitter !  As  she  swings  slowly  twirlin 
roun',  I  really  canna  say,  sir,  for  I  dinna  ken,  whether  baney 
back  or  fleshy  breist  be  the  maist  temptin  !  Sappy  baith ! 

Nor'h.  Right,  James — baste  her — baste  her — don't  spare 
the  flour.  Nothing  tells  like  the  dredge-box. 

Shepherd.  You're  a  capital  man-cook,  sir.     Let's  pree't. 

[SHEPHERD  tastes. 

North.  Ay — I  could  have  told  you  so.  Rash  man,  to 
swallow  liquid  and  solid  fire !  But  no  more  spluttering. 
Cool  your  tongue  with  a  caulker. 

Shepherd.  That  lamp's  no  canny.  It  intensifies  hetness 
intil  an  atrocity  aboon  natur.  Is  the  skin  flyped  aff  my 
tongue,  sir?  [SHEPHERD  shows  tongue. 

North.  Let  me  put  on  my  spectacles.  A  slight  incipient 
inflammation,  not  worth  mentioning. 

Shepherd.  I  howp  an  incipient  inflammation's  no  a  dangerous 
sort? 

North.  Is  that  indeed  the  tongue,  my  dear  James,  that 
trills  so  sweetly  and  so  simply  those  wild  Doric  strains  ? 
How  deeply,  darkly,  beautifully  red  !  Just  like  a  rag  of 
scarlet.  No  scurf — say  rather  no  haze  around  the  lambent 
light.  A  rod  of  fire — an  arrow  of  flame.  A  tongue  of  ten 
thousand,  prophesying  an  eagle  or  raven  life. 

Shepherd.  I  aye  like,  sir,  to  keep  a  gude  tongue  in  my  head, 
ever  since  I  wrote  the  Chaldee  Mannyscripp. 

North.  Humph ! — No  more  infallible  mark  of  a  man  of 
genius,  James,  than  the  shape  of  his  tongue.  It  is  uniformly 
long,  so  that  he  can  shoot  it  out,  with  an  easy  grace,  to  the 
tip  of  his  nose. 

Shepherd.  This  way  ? 


284  "Are  we   Twa   Gluttons  f  " 

North.  Precisely  so.  Fine  all  round  the  edge,  from  root  to 
tip — underneath  very  veinous — surface  in  color  near  as  may 
be  to  that  of  a  crimson  curtain  shining  in  setting  sunlight. 
But  the  tip — James — the  tip — 

Shepherd.  Like  that  o'  the  serpent's  that  deceived  Eve,  sir 
— curlin  up  and  doun  like  the  musical  leaf  o'  some  magical 
tree — 

North.  It  is  a  singular  fact  with  regard  to  the  tongue,  that 
if  you  cut  off  the  half  of  it,  the  proprietor  of  the  contingent 
remainder  can  only  mumble — but  cut  it  off  wholly,  and  he 
speaks  fully  better  than  before — 

Shepherd.  That's  a  hanged  lee. 

North.  As  true  a  word  as  ever  I  spoke,  James. 

Shepherd.  Perhaps  it  may,  sir,  but  it's  a  hanged  lee,  never 
theless. 

North.  Dish  the  steaks,  my  dear  James,  and  I  shall  cut 
down  the  how-towdie. 

[NORTH    and  the    SHEPHERD  furnish   up   the   Ambrosial 
tables,  and  sit  down  to  serious  devouring. 

North.  Now,  James,  acknowledge  it — don't  you  admire  a 
miscellaneous  meal  ? 

Shepherd.  I  do.  Breakfast,  noony,*  denner,  four-hours, t 
and  sooper,  a'  in  ane.  A  material  emblem  o'  that  spiritual 
substance,  Blackwoods  Magazine!  Can  it  possibly  be,  sir, 
that  we  are  twa  gluttons  ? 

North.  Gluttons  we  most  assuredly  are  not ;  but  each  of 
us  is  a  man  of  good  appetite.  What  is  gluttony  ? 

Shepherd.  Some  mair  stakes,  sir  ? 

North.  Very  few,  my  dear  James,  very  few. 

Shepherd.  What's  gluttony  ? 

North.  Some  eggs  ? 

Shepherd.  Ae  spoonfu'.     What  a  layer  she  wad  hae  been ! 

•  Noony— luncheon.  t  Four-hours— tea. 


North's  Palate.  285 

Oh  but  she's  a  prolific  cretur,  Mr.  North,  your  how-towdie  ! 
It's  necessary  to  kill  heaps  o'  yearocks,*  or  the  haill  kintra 
wad  be  a-cackle  frae  John  o'  Groat's  House  to  St.  Michael's 
Mount. 

North.  Sometimes  I  eat  merely  as  an  amusement  or  pastime 
— sometimes  for  recreation  of  my  animal  spirits — sometimes 
on  the  philosophical  principle  of  sustenance — sometimes  for 
the  mere  sensual,  but  scarcely  sinful,  pleasure  of  eating,  or, 
in  common  language,  gormandizing — and  occasionally,  once 
a  month  or  so,  for  all  these  several  purposes  united,  as  at  this 
present  blessed  moment ;  so  a  few  flakes,  my  dear  Shepherd, 
of  that  Westmoreland  ham — lay  the  knife  on  it,  and  its  own 
weight  will  sink  it  down  through  the  soft,  sweet  sappiness 
of  fat  and  lean,  undistinguishably  blended  as  the  colors 
of  the  rainbow,  and  out  of  all  sight  incomparably  more 
beautiful. 

Shepherd.  As  for  me,  I  care  nae  mair  about  what  I  eat 
than  I  do  what  kind  o'  bed  I  sleep  upon,  sir.  I  hate  onything 
stinkin  or  mooldy  at  board — or  onything  damp  or  musty  in 
bed.  But  let  the  vivres  be  but  fresh  and  wholesome — and  if 
it's  but  scones  and  milk,  I  shut  my  een,  say  a  grace,  fa'  to, 
and  am  thankful' ; — let  the  bed  be  dry,  and  whether  saft  or 
hard,  feathers,  hair,  cauff,  straw,  or  heather,  I'm  fast  in  ten 
minutes,  and  my  sowl  waverin  awa  like  a  butterflee  intil  the 
land  o'  dreams. 

North.  Not  a  more  abstemious  man  than  old  Kit  North  in 
his  Majesty's  dominions,  on  which  the  sun  never  sets.  I 
have  the  most  accommodating  of  palates. 

Shepherd.  Yes — it's  an  universal  genius.  I  ken  naething 
like  it,  sir,  but  your  gtammack. — "  Sure  such  a  pair  were 
never  seen  !  "  Had  ye  never  the  colic  ? 

North.  Never,  James,  never.     I  confess  that  I  have  been 

*   Ycarocks — chickens. 


286  Definition  of  Crluttony. 

guilty  of  many  crimes,  but  never  of  a  capital  crime, — never 
of  colic. 

Shepherd.  There's  muckle  confusion  o'  ideas  in  the  brains 
o'  the  blockheads  who  accuse  us  o'  gluttony,  Mr.  North. 
Gluttony  may  be  defined  "  an  immoral  and  unintellectual 
abandonment  o'  the  sowl  o'  man  to  his  gustative  natur."  I 
defy  a  brute  animal  to  be  a  glutton.  A  swine's  no  a  glutton. 
Nae  cretur  but  man  can  be  a  glutton.  A'  the  rest  are  pre 
vented  by  the  definition. 

North.  Sensuality  is  the  most  shocking  of  all  sins,  and  its 
name  is  Legion. 

Shepherd.  Ay,  there  may  be  as  muckle  gluttony  on  sowens 
as  on  turtle-soup.  A  ploughman  may  be  as  greedy  and  as 
gutsy  as  an  alderman.  The  sin  lies  not  in  the  sense,  but 
in  the  sowl.  Sir — a  red  herring? 

North.  Thank  ye,  James. 

Shepherd.  Are  you  drinkin  coffee  ? — Let  me  toast  you  a 
shave  o'  bread,  and  butter  it  for  you  on  baith  sides,  sir  ? 

[The  SHEPHERD  kneels  on  the  Tiger,  and  stretches  out  the 
Trident  to  Vulcan. 

North.  There  has  been  much  planting  of  trees  lately  in  the 
Forest,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  To  my  taste,  to  tell  the  truth,  rather  ower  muckle 
— especially  o'  nurses.* 

North.  Nurses  ! — wet  or  dry  nurses,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Baith.  Larches  and  Scotch  firs  ;  or  you  can  ca* 
them  schoolmasters,  that  teach  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot. 
But  thinnins  in  the  Forest  never  can  pay,  I  suspeck ;  and 
except  on  bleeky  knowes,  the  hardwood  wad  grow  better,  in 
my  opinion,  left  to  themsels,  without  either  nurses  or  school 
masters.  The  nurses  are  apt  to  overlay  their  weans,  and  the 

*  Trees  of  the  hardier  breed,  put  in  at  intervals  to  shelter  the  more 
tender  plants  as  they  grow. 


Ettrick  Forest  of  Old.  287 

schoolmasters  to  forget,  or,  what's  waur,  to  flog  their  pupils ; 
and  thus  the  rising  is  a  stunted  generation. 

North.  Forty-five  years  ago,  my  dear  James,  when  you 
were  too  young  to  remember  much,  I  loved  the  Forest  for  its 
solitary  single  trees,  ancient  yew  or  sycamore,  black  iu  the 
distance,  but  when  near  how  gloriously  green  !  Tall,  deli 
cately-feathered  ash,  whose  limbs  were  still  visible  in  latest 
summer's  leafiness — birch,  in  early  spring,  weeping  and  whis 
pering  in  its  pensive  happiness  by  the,  perpetual  din  of  its  own 
waterfall — oak,  yellow  in  the  suns  of  June — 

Shepherd. — 

"  The  grace  of  forest  charms  decayed, 
And  pastoral  melancholy  !  " 

North.  What  lovely  lines  !  Who  writes  like  Wordsworth  ? 

Shepherd.  Tuts  !  Me  ower  young  to  remember  muckle 
fourty-five  years  ago  !  You're  speakin  havers.  I  was  then 
twal — and  I  remember  everything  I  ever  heard  or  saw  sin'  I 
was  three  year  auld.  I  recolleck  the  mornin  I  was  pitten 
intil  breeks  as  distinckly  as  if  it  were  this  verra  day. 

North.  All  linnets  have  died,  James — that  race  of  loveliest 
lilters  is  extinct. 

Shepherd.  No  thae.  Broom  and  bracken  are  tenanted  by 
the  glad,  meek  creturs  still, — but  the  chords  o'  music  in  our 
hearts  are  sair  unstrung — the  harp  o'  our  heart  has  lost  its 
melody.  But  come  out  to  the  Forest,  my  dear,  my  honored 
sir,  and  fear  not  then,  when  we  twa  are  walking  thegither 
without  speakin  among  the  hills,  you 

"  Will  feel  the  airs  that  from  them  blow, 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow;  " 

and  the  wild,  uncertain,  waverin  music  o'  the  Eolian  harp, 
that  uatur  plays  upon  in  the  solitude,  will  again  echo  far,  far 
awa  amang  the  recesses  o'  your  heart,  and  the  lintie  will  sing 
as  sweetly  as  ever  frae  amang  the  blossoms  o'  the  milk-white 


288  "  You  wush  that  I  was  dead  !  " 

thorn.  Or  if  you  canna  be  brocht  to  feel  sae,  you'll  hae  but 
to  look  in  my  wee  Jamie's  face,  and  his  glistening  een  will 
convince  you  that  Scotia's  nightingale  still  singe th  as  sweetly 
as  of  yore ! — But  let  us  sit  in  to  the  fire,  sir. 

North.  Thank  you,  Shepherd — thank  you,  James. 

Shepherd  (wheeling  his  father's  chair  to  the  ingle  corner,  and 
singing  the  while} — 

"THERE'S  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH  THAT  WONS  IN  YON  GLEN, 
HE'S  THE  KING  O'  GUDE  FALLOWS,  AND  WALE  *  O'  AULD  MEN!  " 

North.  James,  I  will  trouble  you  for  the  red  herrings. 

Shepherd.  There.  Mr.  North,  I  coud  write  twunty  vol- 
lumms  about  the  weather.  Wad  they  sell  ? 

North.  I  fear  they  might  be  deficient  in  incident. 

Shepherd.  Naething  I  write's  ever  deficient  in  incident. 
Between  us  three,  what  think  ye  o'  my  Shepherd's  Calendar  ? 

North.  Admirable,  my  dear  James — admirable.  To  tell 
you  the  truth,  I  never  read  it  in  the  Magazine ;  but  I  was 
told  the  papers  were  universally  liked  there — and  now,  as 
Vols.,  they  are  beyond — above — all  praise. 

Shepherd.  But  wull  you  say  that  in  black  and  white  in  the 
Magazine  ?  What's  the  use  o'  rousin  a  body  to  their  face, 
and  abusin  them  ahint  their  backs  ?  Setting  them  upon  a 
pedestal  in  private,  and  in  public  layin  them  a'  their  length 
on  the  floor  ?  You're  jealous  o'  me,  sir,  that's  the  real  truth, 
— and  you  wush  that  I  was  dead. 

North.  Pardon  me,  James,  I  merely  wish  that  you  never 
had  been  born. 

Shepherd.  That's  far  mair  wicked.  Oh !  but  jealousy  and 
envy's  twa  delusive  passions,  and  they  pu'  you  doun  frae  your 
aerial  altitude,  sir,  like  twa  ravens  ruggin  an  eagle  frae  the 

<&y. 

North.  From  literary  jealousy,  James,  even  of  you,  my 


Shakespeare's  Othello.  289 

soul  is  free  as  the  stone-shaded  well  in  your  garden  from  the 
ditch-water  that  flows  around  it  on  a  rainy  day.  I  but  flirt 
with  the  Muses,  and  when  they  are  faithless,  I  whistle  the 
haggards  down  the  wind,  and  puff  all  care  away  with  a  cigar. 
But  I  have  felt  the  jealousy,  James,  and  of  all  passions  it 
alone  springs  from  seed  wafted  into  the  human  heart  from 
the  Upas  Tree  of  Hell. 

Shepherd.  Wheesht!     Wheesht! 

North.  Shakespeare  has  but  feebly  painted  that  passion  in 
Othello.  A  complete  failure.  I  never  was  married,  that  I 
recollect — neither  am  I  a  black  man — therefore  I  do  not  pre 
tend  to  be  a  judge  of  Othello's  conduct  and  character.  But, 
in  the  first  place,  Shakespeare  ought  to  have  been  above 
taking  an  anomalous  case  of  jealousy.  How  could  a  black 
husband  escape  being  jealous  of  a  white  wife  ?  There  was  a 
cause  of  jealousy  given  in  his  very  face. 

Shepherd.  Eh?  What?  What?  Eh?  Faith  there's  some 
thing  in  that  observation. 

North.  Besides,  had  Desdemona  lived,  she  would  have  pro 
duced  a  mulatto.  Could  she  have  seen  their  "  visages  in  their 
minds  ?  "  Othello  and  she  going  to  church  with  a  brood  of 
tawnies 

Shepherd.  I  dinna  like  to  hear  you  speakin  that  way. 
Dinna  profane  poetry. 

North.  Let  not  poetry  profane  nature.  I  am  serious,  James. 
That  which  in  real  life  would  be  fulsome,  cannot  breathe 
sweetly  in  fiction  ;  for  fiction  is  still  a  reflection  of  truth,  and 
truth  is  sacred. 

Shepherd.  I  agree  wi'  you  sae  far,  that  the  Passiou  o'  Jeal 
ousy  in  Luve  can  only  be  painted  wi'  perfect  natur  in  a  man 
that  stands  towards  a  woman  in  a  perfectly  natural  relation. 
Otherwise  the  picture  may  be  well  painted,  but  it  is  still  but 
a  picture  of  a  particular  and  singular  exhibition  o'  the  passion 


290  Othello  is  an  Anomaly, 

— in  short,  as  you  say,  o*  an  anomaly.    I  like  a  word  I  dinna 
weel  understan'. 

North,  Mr.  "Wordsworth  calls  Desdemona  "  the  gentle  lady 
married  to  the  Moor,"  and  the  line  has  been  often  quoted 
and  admired.  It  simply  asserts  two  facts, — that  she  was  a 
gentle  lady,  and  that  she  was  married  to  the  Moor.  What 
then? 

Shepherd.  I  forgie  her— I  pity  her — but  I  can  wi'  difficulty 
respeck  her — I  confess.  It  was  a  curious  kind  o'  hankeric 
after  an  opposite  color. 

North.  Change  the  character  and  condition  of  the  parties 
—can  you  imagine  a  white  hero  falling  in  love  with  a  black 
heroine  in  a  country  where  there  were  plenty  of  white  women  ? 
Marrying  and  murdering  her  in  an  agony  of  rage  and  love  ? 

Shepherd.  I  can  only  answer  for  mysel — I  never  could  bring 
mysel  to  marry  a  Blackamoor. 

North.  Yet  they  are  often  sweet,  gentle,  affectionate,  meek, 
mild,  humble,  and  devoted  creatures — Desdemonas. 

Shepherd.  But  men  and  women,  sir,  I  verily  believe,  are 
different  in  mony  things  respecting  the  passion  o'  luve.  I've 
kent  bonny,  young,  bloomin  lassies  fa'  in  luve  wi'  auld, 
wizened,  disgustin  fallows, — I  hae  indeed,  sir.  It  was  their 
fancy.  But  I  never  heard  tell  o'  a  young,  handsome,  healthy 
chiel  gettin  impassioned  on  an  auld,  wrunkled,  skranky  hag, 
without  a  tocher.  Now,  sir,  Othello  was — 

North.  Well — well — let  it  pass — 

Shepherd.  Ay — that's  the  way  o'  you — the  instant  you 
begin  to  see  the  argument  gaun  against  you,  you  turn  the 
conversation,  either  by  main  force,  or  by  a  quirk  or  a  sophism, 
and  sae  escape  frae  the  net  that  was  about  to  be  flung  ower 
you,  and  like  a  bird,  awa  up  into  the  air — or  invisible  ower 
the  edge  of  the  horizon. 

North.   Well,  then,  James,  what  say  you  to  lago  ? 


And  Tago  is  unintelligible.  291 

Shepherd.  What  about  him  ? 

North.  Is  his  character  in  nature  ? 

Shepherd.  I  dinna  ken.     But  what  for  no  ? 

North.  What  was  his  motive  ?     Pure  love  of  mischief  ? 

Shepherd.  Aiblins.* 

North.  Pride  in  power  and  in  skill  to  work  mischief? 

Shepherd.  Aiblins. 

North.  Did  he  hate  the  Moor  even  to  the  death  ? 

Shepherd.  Aiblins. 

North.  Did  he  resolve  to  work  his  ruin,  let  the  consequences 
to  himself  be  what  they  might  ? 

Shepherd.  It  would  seem  sae. 

North.  Did  he  know  that  his  own  ruin — his  own  death- 
must  follow  the  success  of  this  scheme  ? 

Shepherd.   Hoo  can  I  telf  that  ? 

North.  Was  he  blinded  utterly  to  such  result  by  his  wicked 
ness  directed  against  Othello  ? 

Shepherd.  Perhaps  he  was.     Hoo  can  I  tell  ? 

North.  Or  did  he  foresee  his  own  doom — and  still  go  on 
unappalled  ? 

Shepherd.  It  micht  be  sae,  for  onything  I  ken  to  the  con 
trary.  He  was  ower  cool  and  calculatin  to  be  blinded. 

North.  Is  he,  then,  an  intelligible  or  an  unintelligible 
character? 

Shepherd.  An  unintelligible. 

North.  Therefore  not  a  natural  character.  I  say,  James, 
that  his  conduct  from  first  to  last  cannot  be  accounted  for  by 
any  view  that  can  be  taken  of  his  chara«ter.  The  whole  is  a 
riddle — of  which  Shakespeare  has  not  given  the  solution. 
Now,  all  human  nature  is  full  of  riddles  ;  but  it  is  the  busi 
ness  of  dramatic  poets  to  solve  them — and  this  one  Shake 
speare  has  left  unsolved.  But  having  himself  proposed  it, 


292  The  Newspapers  arrive. 

he  was  bound  either  to  have  solved  it,  or  to  have  set  such  a 
riddle  as  the  wit  of  man  could  have  solved  in  two  centuries. 
Therefore 

Shepherd.  "  Othello  "  is  a  bad  play  ? 

North.  Not  bad,  but  not  good — that  is,  not  greatly  good — 
not  in  the  first  order  of  harmonious  and  mysterious  creations 
— not  a  work  worthy  of  Shakespeare. 

Shepherd.  Confound  me  if  I  can  tell  whether  you're  speakin 
sense  or  nonsense — truth  or  havers  ;  or  whether  you  be 
serious,  or  only  playin  aff  upon  me  some  o'  your  Mephisto. 
philes  tricks.  I  af ten  think  you're  an  evil  speerit  in  disguise, 
and  that  your  greatest  delight  is  in  confounding  truth  and 
falsehood  .  .  .  Wheesht !  I  hear  a  rustlin  in  the  letter-box. 

North.  John  will  have  brought  up  my  newspapers  from  the 
Lodge,  expecting  that  I  am  not  to'  be  at  home  to  dinner. 

Shepherd.  Denner  !  it's  near  the  dawin  ! 

[  The  SHEPHERD   opens   the   letter-box   in   the   door,  and  lays 
down  nearly  a  dozen  newspapers  on  the  table. 

North.  Ay,  there  they  are,  the  Herald,  the  Morning  Post, 
the  Morning  Journal,  the  Courier,  the  Globe,  the  Standard,  and 
"  the  Rest."  Let  me  take  a  look  into  the  Standard,  as  able, 
argument  trve,  and  eloquent  a  paper  as  ever  supported  civil 
and  religious  liberty — that  is,  Protestantism  in  Church  and 
State. — No  disparagement  to  its  staunch  brother,  the  Morning 
Journal,  or  its  excellent  cousin,  the  Morning  Post.  Two 
strong,  steady,  well-bred  wheelers — and  a  Leader  that  shows 
blood  at  all  points — and  covers  his  ground  like  the  Pheno 
menon. — No  superior  set-out  to  an — Unicorn. 

[NORTH  unfolds  the  Standard. 

Shepherd.  I  never  read  prent  after  twal.  And  as  for  news 
papers,  I  carena  if  they  should  be  a  month  auld.  It's  pitifu' 
to  see  some  folk — nae  fules  neither — unhappy  if  their  paper 
misses  comin  ony  nicht  by  the  post.  For  my  ain  pairt,  I  like 


North  becomes  oblivious.  293 

best  to  receive  a  great  heap  o'  them  a'  at  ance  in  a  parshel  by 
the  carrier.  Ony  news,  North  ? 

North.  Eh? 

Shepherd.  Ony  news  ?     Are  you  deaf  ?  or  only  absent  ? 

North.  Eh? 

Shepherd.  There's  mainners — the  mainners  o'  a  gentleman 
— o'  the  auld  schule  too. — Ony  news  ? 

North.  Hem — hem  * — 

Shepherd.  His  mind's  weaken'd.  Millions  o'  reasonable 
creatures  at  this  hour  perhaps — na — no  at  this  hour — but  a' 
this  evenin — readin  newspapers !  And  that's  the  philosophy 
o'  human  life  !  London  sendin  out,  as  frae  a  great  reservoir, 
rivers  o'  reports,  spates  o'  speculations,  to  inundate,  to  droon, 
to  deluge  the  haill  island  !  I  hear  the  torrents  roarin,  but  the 
soun'  fa's  on  my  ear  without  stunnin  my  heart.  There  comes 
a  drought,  and  they  are  a'  dry.  Catholic  Emancipation ! 
Stern  shades  of  the  old  Covenanters,  methinks  I  hear  your 
voices  on  the  moors  and  the' mountains  !  But  weep  not,  wail 
not — though  a  black  cloud  seems  to  be  hanging  over  all  the 
land !  Still  will  the  daisy,  "  wee  modest  crimson-tipped 
flower,"  bloom  sweetly  on  the  greensward  that  of  yore  was 
reddened  wi'  your  patriot,  your  martyr  blood.  Still  will  the 
foxglove,  as  the  silent  ground-bee  bends  doun  the  lovely 
hanging  bells,  shake  the  pure  tears  of  heaven  over  your  hal 
lowed  graves  !  Though  annual  fires  run  along  the  bonny 
bloomin  heather,  yet  the  shepherds  ne'er  miss  the  balm  and 
brightness  still  left  at  mornin  to  meet  them  on  the  solitary 
hills.  The  sound  of  Psalms  rises  not  now,  as  they  sublimely 
did  in  those  troubled  times,  from  a  tabernacle  not  built  with 
hands,  whose  side-walls  were  the  rocks  and  cliffs,  its  floor 
ihe  spacious  sward,  arid  its  roof  the  eternal  heavens.  Bur 

»  It  wa8  Professor  Wilson's  habit,  when  great  events  were  astir,  to  be 
much  absorbed  in  the  newspaper  he  happened  to  be  reading. 


294  Unable  to  obtain  a  Hearing. 

from  beneath  many  a  lowly  roof  of  house,  and  hut,  and 
hovel,  and  shielin,  and  sylvan  cosy  bield,  ascend  the  humble 
holy  orisons  of  poor  and  happy  men,  who,  when  comes  the 
hour  of  sickness  or  of  death,  desire  no  other  pillow  for  their 
swimming  brain  than  that  Bible,  which  to  them  is  the  Book 
of  everlasting  life,  even  as  the  Sun  is  the  Orb  of  the  transi 
tory  day.  And  to  maintain  that  faith  is  now,  alas  !  bigotry 
and  superstition  ! — But  where  am  I  ?  In  the  silence  I  thocht 
it  was  the  Sabbath — and  that  I  was  in  the  Forest.  High 
thochts  and  pure  feelings  can  never  come  amiss — either  in 
place  or  in  time.  Folk  that  hae  been  prayin  in  a  kirk  may 
lauch,  withouten  blame,  when  they  hae  left  the  kirkyard 
Silly  thochts  maun  never  be  allowed  to  steal  in  amang  sacred 
anes — but  there  never  can  be  any  harm  in  sacred  thochts 
stealing  in  amang  silly  anes.  A  bit  bird  singin  by  itsel  in 
the  wilderness  has  sometimes  made  me  amaist  greet,*  in  a 
mysterious  melancholy  that  seemed  wafted  towards  me  on 
the  solitary  strain,  frae  regions  -ayont  the  grave.  But  it 
flitted  awa  into  silence,  and  in  twa  or  three  minutes  I  was 
singin  ane  o'  my  ain  cheerful — nay,  funny  sangs. — Mr.  North, 
I  say,  will  ye  never  hae  dune  readin  at  that  Stannard  ?  It's 
a  capital  paper — I  ken  that — nane  better — na,  nane  sae 
gude,  for  it's  faithful  and  fearless,  and  cuts  like  a  twa- 
handed  twa-edged  swurd.  Mr.  North,  I  say,  I'll  begin  to  get 
real  angry  if  you'll  no  speak.  O  man -I  but  that's  desperate 
bad  mainners  to  keep  glowering  like  a  gawpus  on  a  news 
paper,  at  what  was  meant  to  be  a  crick-crack  atween  twa 
auld  freens.  Fling't  doun.  I'm  sayin,  sir,  fling't  doun.  Oh 
but  you're  ugly  the  noo — and  what's  waur,  there's  nae 
meaniii  in  your  face.  You're  a  puir,  auld,  ugly,  stupid, 
vulgar,  disagreeable,  and  dishonest-looking  fallow,  and  a'm 
baith  sorry  and  ashamed  that  I  sud  be  sittiu  in  sic  company. 

*  Greet— weep. 


Hogg  insults  North.  295 

Fling  doun  the  Stannard — if  you  dinna,  it  'ill  be  waur  for 
you,  for  you've  raised  my  corruption.  Flesh  and  bluid  can 
bear  this  treatment  nae  langer.  I'll  gie  just  ae  mair  warnin. 
Fling  doun  the  Stannard.  Na,  you  wunna — won't  you? 
Weel,  tak  that. 

[The  SHEPHERD  throws  a  glass  of  toddy  in  Mr.  NORTH'S 
face. 

North.  Ha  !  What  the  deuce  is  that  ?  My  cup  has  jumped 
out  of  my  hand  and  spurted  the  Glenlivet-coffee  into  its 
master's  countenance.  James,  lend  me  your  pocket-hand 
kerchief.  [Relapses  into  the  Standard. 

Shepherd.  Fling  doun  the  Stannard — or  I'll  gang  mad. 
Neist  time  I'll  shy  the  jug  at  him — for  if  it's  impossible  to 
insult,  it  may  perhaps  be  possible  to  kill  him.  Fling  doun 
the  Stannard.  You  maddenin  auld  sinner,  you  wad  be  cheap 
o'  death  !  Yet  I  maunna  kill  him — I  mamma  kill  him — for 
1  micht  be  hanged. 

North.  Nobly  said,  Sadler  * — nobly  said  !  I  have  long 
known  your  great  talents,  and  your  great  eloquence  too, 
but  I  hardly  hoped  for  such  a  display  of  both  as  this. — Hear  ! 
— hear  ! — hear  ! — There — my  trusty  fere — you  have  indeed 
clapped  the  saddle  on  the  right  horse. 

Shepherd.  Tak  that. 

[Flings  another  glass  of  toddy  in  Mr.  NORTH'S  face. 

North,  (starting  up),    Fire  and  fury  ! 

Shepherd.  Butter  and  brimstone  !  Howdauredyou  to  treat 
me — 

North.  This  outrage  must  not  pass  unpunished.  Hogg,  I 
shall  give  you  a  sound  thrashing. 

*  Michael  Thomas  Sadler,  M.  P.,  1829,  for  Newark-upon-Trent,  was  born 
in  1780,  and  died  in  1836.  The  amelioration  of  the  condition  of  the  factory 
children  of  England,  and  of  the  Irish  poor,  was  due  very  much  to  his  exer 
tions.  His  principal  works  were— Ireland,  its  Evils  and  their  Remedies,— 
and  The  Law  of  Population,  written  in  opposition  to  Malthug. 


296  North  demands  Satisfaction, 

[Mr.  NORTH  advances  toward  the  SHEPHERD  in  an  offensive 
attitude.  The  SHEPHERD  seizes  the  poker  in  one  hand, 
and  a  chair  in  the  other. 

Shepherd.  Haud  aff,  sir, — baud  aff — or  I'll  brain  you. 
Dinna  pick  a  quarrel  wi'  me.  I've  dune  a'  I  could  to  prevent 
it ;  but  the  provocation  I  received  was  past  a'  endurance. 
Haud  aff,  sir, — haud  aff. 

North,  Coward !  coward  !  coward  ! 

Shepherd.  Flyte  *  awa,  sir — flyte  awa ; — but  baud  aff,  or 
I'll  fell  you. 

North  (resuming  his  seat}.  I  am  unwilling  to  hurt  you, 
James,  on  account  of  those  at  Mount  Benger ;  but  lay  down 
the  poker — and  lay  down  the  chair. 

Shepherd.  Na — na — na.  Unless  you  first  swear  on  the 
Bible  that  you'll  tak  nae  unfair  advantage. 

North.  Let  my  word  suffice — I  won't.  Now  go  to  that 
press — and  you  will  see  a  pair  of  gloves.  Bring  them  to 
me —  [The  SHEPHERD  fetches  the  gloves. 

Shepherd.  Ca'  you  thae  gloves  ? 

North,  (stripping  and  putting  on  the  gloves).  Now,  sir,  use 
your  fists  as  you  best  may — and  in  five  minutes  I  shall  take 
the  conceit  out  of  you — 

Shepherd  (peeling  to  thesark).  I'll  sune  gie  you  a  bluidy 
nose. 

[  The  combatants  shake  hands  and  put  themselves  into 

attitude. 

North.     Take  care  of  your  eyes. 

[SHEPHERD  elevates  his  guard — and  NORTH  delivers  a  des 
perate  right-handed  lunge  on  his  kidneys. 
Shepherd.  That's  no  fair,  ye  auld  blackguard. 
North.  Well,  then,  is  that  ? 
[SHEPHERD  receives  two  left-handed  facers,  which  seem  to 


And  takes  it.  297 

muddle  his  knowledge-box.     He  bores  in  wildly  on  tht 
old  man. 

Shepherd.  Whew — whew — whew.  Fu — fu — fu.  What's 
that?  What's  that?  \jThe  SHEPHERD  receives  pepper. 

North.  Hit  straight,  James.     So — so — so — so — so. 
Shepherd.  That's  foul  play.    There's  mair  nor  ane  o'  you. 
Wha's  that  joinin  in  ?     Let  me  alane — and  I'll  sune  finish 
him — 

[Mr.  NORTH,  who  has  gradually  retreated  into  a  corner  of 
the  snuggery,  gathers  himself  up  for  mischief,  and  as 
the  SHEPHERD  rushes  in  to  close,  delivers  a  stinger 
under  JAMES'S  ear,  that  floors  him  like  a  shot.  Mr. 
NORTH  then  comes  out,  as  actively  as  a  bird  on  the 
bough  of  a  tree. 

North.  I  find  I  have  a  hit  in  me  yet.  A  touch  on  the 
jugular  always  tells  tales.  Hollo  !  hollo  !  My  dear  James  ! 
Deaf  as  a  house. 

[Mr.  NORTH  takes  off  the  gloves — fetches  a  tumbler  of  the 
jug — and  kneeling  tenderly  down  by  the  SHEPHERD, 
bathes  his  temples.  JAMES  opens  his  eyes,  and  stares 
wildly  around. 

Shepherd.  Is  that  you,  Gudefallow  ?  Hae  I  had  a  fa'  aff  a 
horse,  or  out  o'  the  gig  ? 

North.  My  dear  maister — out  o'  the  gig.  The  young  horse 
took  fricht  at  a  tup  loupin*  over  the  wa',  and  set  aff  like 
lichtnin.  You  sudna  hae  louped  out — you  sudna  hae 
louped  out. 

Shepherd.  Whare's  the  gig? 
North.  Never  mind,  maister. 
Shepherd.  I  say,  whare's  the  gig  ? 
North.  In  the  Loch — 
Shepherd.  And  the  horse? 

*  Lmtjrin — leaping. 


208  The  Shepherd  revives^ 

North.  In  the  Loch  too. 

Shepherd.  Droon'd  ? 

North.  Not  yet — if  you  look  up,  you'll  see  him  soomin 
across  wi'  the  gig. 

Shepherd  (fixing  his  eyes  on  vacancy).  Ay — sure  aneuch — 
yonner  he  goes  ! 

North.  Yon  proves  his  breed.  He's  descended  from  the 
water-horse. 

Shepherd.  I'm  verra  faint.     I  wush  I  had  some  whusky— 

North.  Here,  maister — here — 

[The  SHEPHERD  drains  the  tumbler,  and  revives 

Shepherd.  Am  I  in  the  open  air,  or  in  a  hoose ;  I  howp  a 
hoose — or  there  maun  be  a  concussion  o'  the  brain,  for  I 
seem  to  see  chairs  and  tables. 

North.  Yes,  maister — you  have  been  removed  in  a  blanket 
by  eight  men  to  Mount  Benger. 

Shepherd.     Is  baith  my  legs  brok  ? 

North.  Dinna  ask — dinna  ask.  We've  sent  an  express  to 
Embro'  for  Listen.*  They  say  that  when  he  sets  broken  legs 
they're  stronger  than  ever. 

Shepherd.  He's  awonderfu'  operawtor — but  I  can  scarcely 
believe  that.  Oh !  am  I  to  be  for  life  a  lameter  !f  It's  a 
judgment  on  me  for  writin  the  Chaldee  !$ 

North.  I  canna  thole,  maister,  to  see  you  greetin — 

Shepherd.  Mercifu'  powers !  but  your  face  is  changed  intil 
that  o'  an  auld  man  ! — Was  Mr.  North  frae  Embro'  here  the 
noo? 

North.  I  am  indeed  that  unhappy  old  man.     But  'tis  all 

*  Robert  Listen,  one  of  the  most  eminent  surgeons  of  the  day,  first  in 
Edinburgh,  and  afterwards  in  London.  He  died  in  1847. 

t  Lameter — a  cripple. 

t  Messrs.  Pringle  and  Cleghorn — both  of  whom  were  excessively  lame- 
were  the  editors  of  the  first  six  numbers  of  Blackwood's  Magazine.  In  the 
famous  Chaldee  MS.  they  are  satirically  described  by  the  Shepherd. 


And  is  comforted.  299 

but  a  dream,  my  clear  James — 'tis  all  but  a  dream  !  What 
means  all  this  wild  disjointed  talk  of  yours  about  gigs  and 
horses,  and  a  horse  and  a  gig  swimming  over  St.  Marys  Loch  ? 
Here  we  are,  my  beloved  friend,  in  Edinburgh — in  Picardy 
— at  the  Noctes  Ambrosianae — at  high-jinks,  my  James,  after 
a  bout  with  the  mufflers  and  the  naked  mawleys. 

Shepherd.  I  dreamed  that  I  had  knocked  you  down,  sir. — 
Was  that  the  case  ? 

North.  It  was  indeed,  James.  But  I  am  not  angry  with 
you.  You  did  not  mean  to  hit  so  hard.  You  generously 
ran  in  to  keep  me  from  falling,  and  by  some  strange  sudden 
twist  you  happened  to  fall  undermost,  and  to  save  me, 
sacrificed  yourself. — 'Twas  a  severe  stun. 

Shepherd.  The  haill  wecht  o'  mist  has  rolled  itsel  up  into 
cluds  on  the  mountain-taps,  and  all  the  scenery  aneath  lies 
fresh  and  green,  wi'  every  kent  house  and  tree.  But  I  howp 
you're  no  sair  hurt  yoursel — let  me  help  you  up — 

[The  SHEPHERD  assists  Mr.  XORTH,  tcho  has  been  sitting  on 
the  floor,  like  the  Shah,  to  recover  his  pins — and  the  two 
walk  arm-in-arm  to  their  respective  chairs. 

North.  I  am  sorely  shaken,  James.  An  account  of  our 
Set-to,  our  Turn-up,  James,  ought  to  be  sent  to  that  admirable 
sporting  paper,  Cell's  Life  in  London. 

Shepherd.  Let  it,  my  dear  sir,  be  a  lesson  to  you  the  langest 
day  you  leeve.  never  to  pick  a  quarrel,  or  even  to  undertak 
ony  half-and-half  sort  o'  horse-play  wi'  a  younger  and  a 
stronger  man  than  yoursel.  Sir,  if  I  hadna  been  sae  weel  up 
to  the  business,  that  fa'  might  hae  been  your  last.  As  for 
thae  nasty  gloves,  I  never  wush  to  see  their  faces  again  a'  the 
days  o'  my  life.  What's  that  chappin  ? 

North.  Probably  Picardy.     See,  the  door's  locked  inside. 
[The  SHEPHERD  unlocks  and  opens  the  door. 

Shepherd.  What  mob's  this  ? 


300  A  Pair  of  black  Eyes. 

North.  Show  in  the  Democracy. 

(Enter  PICARDY,  Mon.  CADET,  the  Manciple,  the  Clerk  of 
the  Pipe,  KING  PEPIX,  SIR  DAVID  GAM,  TAPPYTOORIE, 
and  the  "  Rest.") 

Ambrose  (while  OMNES  hold  up  their  hands).  Dear  me ! 
dear  me ! 

Shepherd.  What  are  you  a'  glowerin  at  me  for,  ye  fules  ? 
North.  Tappy,  bring  me  a  looking-glass.  [Exit  TAPPY, 
volans. 

Shepherd.  I  say,  ye  fules,  what  are  ye  glowerin  at  me  in 
that  gate  for  ?  Do  you  see  horns  on  my  head  ? 

(Re-enter  TAPPY,  with  a  copy  of  the  Mirror.) 
North.  Take  a  glance,  my  dear  James,  at  the  Magic  Mirror. 
[The  SHEPHERD  looks  in,  and  recoils  to  the  sideboard. 
Shepherd.  What'n  a  face  !     What'n  a  pair  o'  black,  blue, 
green,  yellow  een  ! 

North.  We  must  apply  leeches.  Mr.  Ambrose,  bring  in  a 
few  bottles  of  leeches,  and  some  raw  veal-steaks. 

Shepherd.  Aff  wi'  you — aff  wi'  you — the  haill  tot  o'  you. 

[Exit  PICARDY  with  his  Tail. 

North.  Come  to  my  arms,  my  incomparable  Shepherd,  and 
let  us  hob  and  nob,  to  "  Gude  nicht  and  joy  be  wi'  us  a',"  in 
a  caulker  of  Millbank ;  and  let  us,  during  the  "  wullie-waught," 
think  of  him  whose  worthy  name  it  bears — 

Shepherd.  As,  gude  a  chiel's  in  Christendie  ! — Oh,  my  ever 
honored  sir,  what  wad  the  warld  say,  if  she  kent  the  concludin 
proceedins  o'  this  nicht  ?     That  we  were  twa  auld  fules  ! 
North.  At  times,  James — 

• 

"  'Tis  folly  to  be  wise." 

Shepherd.  As  auld  Crow,  the  Oxford  orator,  says  at  the  end 
o'  his  bonny  descriptive  poem,  Lewesdon  Hill : — 

"  To-morrow  for  severer  thought — but  now 
To  breaktaafc." 


To  Breakfast !  301 

North.  To  bed — you  mean — 

Shepherd.  No — to  breakfast.  It's  morniiu  The  East  is 
brichtenin. — Look  over  awaukenin  Leith — and,  lo !  white 
sails  glidin  ower  the  dim  blue  sea ! 

North.  Let  us  each  take  a  cold  bath. 

FMr.  NORTH  and  SHEPHERD  disappear. 


XX. 

IN  WHICH,  DURING  THE  GREA  T STORM,  THE  SNUGGER  Y 
WIND V W IS  BLOWN  IN,  AND  THE  SHEPHERD  SUFFERS 

The  Snuggery. —  Time,  seven  o'clock. 
NORTH  and  SHEPHERD. 

Shepherd.  Oh,  sir  !  but  there's  something  delightfu'  in  coal- 
fire  glimmerin  and  gloomin,  breaking  out  every  noo  and  then 
into  a  flickering  bleeze  ;  and  whenever  ane  uses  the  poker, 
into  a  sudden  illumination,  vivifyin  the  pictured  paper  on  the 
wa's,  and  settin  a'  the  range  o'  looking-glasses  a-low,  like  sae 
mony  beacons  kindled  on  the  taps  o'  hills,  burnin  awa  to  ane 
anither  ower  a'  the  kintra-side,  on  the  birthday  nicht  o'  the 
Duke  o'  Buccleuch,  or  that  o'  his  marriage  wi'  that  fair  Eng 
lish  Leddy  * — God  bless  them  baith,  and  send  them  in  gude 
time  a  circle  o'  bauld  sons  and  bonny  dochters,  to  uphaud 
the  stately  and  noble  house  o'  the  King  o'  the  Border ! 

North.  Amen.  James — a  caulker. 

Shepherd.  That  speerit's  far  aboon  proof.  There's  little 
difference  atween  awka  veety  an'  awka  fortis.f  Ay,  ma  man, 
that  gars  your  een  water.  Dicht  them  wi'  the  doylez,  and 
then  tak  a  mouthfu'  out  o'  the  jug  to  moderate  the  intensity 

*  In  1829  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch  married  Lady  Charlotte  Anne  Thynne, 
daughter  of  the  Marquess  of  Bath. 

*  Aqua   -;/<ea.nl  dt/un /ortix. 

302 


A  Wild  Night.  303 

o'  the  pure  cretur.  Haud,  haud !  it's  no  sma'  yill,  but  strong 
toddy,  sir.  (Aside) — The  body  'ill  be  foil  afore  aught  o'clock. 

North.  This  jug,  James,  is  rather  wishy-washy  ;  confound 
me  if  I  don't  suspect  it  is  milk  and  water ! 

Shepherd.  Plowp  in  some  speerit.  Let  me  try't.  It  'ill  do 
noo,  sir.  That's  capital  boilin  water,  and  tholes  double  its 
ain  wecht  o'  cauld  Glenlivet.  Let's  dook  in  *  the  thermometer. 
Up,  you  see,  to  twa  hunder  and  twunty,  just  the  proper  toddy 
pitch.  It's  Hiirawculous ! 

North.  What  sort  of  a  night  out  of  doors,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  A  fine  night,  sir,  and  like  the  season.  The  wund's 
due  east,  and  I'se  warrant  the  ships  at  anchor  in  the  Roads 
are  a'  rather  coggly,  wi'  their  nebs  doun  the  Firth,  like  sae 
rnony  rocking-horses.  On  turnin  the  corner  o'  Picardy,  a 
blash  o'  sleet  like  a  verra  snawba'  amaist  knocked  my  head 
aff  my  shouthers ;  and  as  for  my  hat,  if  it  meet  with  nae 
interruption,  it  maun  be  weel  on  to  West-Craigs  by  this  time, 
for  it  flew  atf  in  a  whurlwund.  Ye  canna  see  the  sleet  for 
the  haur  ;f  the  ghastly  lamps  are  amaist  entirely  overpoored 
by  the  whustlin  darkness ;  and  as  for  moon  and  stars,  they're 
a'  dead  and  buried,  and  we  never  mair  may  wutness  their 
resurrection.  Auld-woraen  frae  chimley-taps  are  clytinj  wi* 
a  crash  into  every  area,  and  the  deevil's  tirlin  §  the  kirks  out- 
ower  a'  the  Synods  o'  Scotland.  Whisht !  Is  that  thunner  ? 

North.  I  fear  scarcely — but  the  roar  in  the  vent  is  good, 
James,  and  tells  of  tempest.  Would  to  heaven  I  were  at  sea  ! 

Shepherd.  That's  impious.  Yet  you  micht  aiblins  be  safe 
aneuch  in  a  bit  cockle-shell  o'  an  open  boat — for  some  folk  are 
born  no  to  be  drooned — 

North.  There  goes  another  old-woman  !  || 

«  Dook  in— plunge  in.  t  Haur— flying  mist, 

t  Clytin — falling.  §  Tirlin — unroofing. 

P  Old-woman — chimney-can 


304  "  Wliat  for  wunna  ye  marry  f ' ' 

Shepherd.  Oh,  but  the  Yarrow  wull  be  a'  ae  red  roar  the 
noo,  frae  the  Loch  to  the  Ettrick.  Yet  wee  Jamie's  soun' 
asleep  in  his  crib  by  this  time,  and  dreamin,  it  may  be.  o' 
paiddlin  amang  the  mennows  in  the  silver  sandbanks  o'  sim 
mer,  whare  the  glassy  stream  is  nae  higher  than  his  knee  ; 
or  o'  chasin  amang  the  broom  the  young  Unties  sent  by  the 
sunshine,  afore  their  wings  are  weel  feathered,  frae  their 
mossy  cradle  in  the  brier-bush,  and  able  to  flee  just  weel 
aneuch  to  wile  awa  on  and  on,  after  their  chirpin  flutter,  my 
dear  wee  canty  callant,  chasin  first  ane  and  then  anither,  on 
wings  just  like  their  ain,  the  wings  o'  joy,  love,  and  hope  ; 
fauldin  them,  in  a  disappointment  free  frae  ony  taint  o' 
bitterness,  when  a'  the  burdies  hae  disappeared,  and  his  een, 
as  he  sits  doun  on  the  knowe,  fix  themselves  wi'  a  new 
pleasure  on  the  bonny  bands  o'  gowans  croodin  round  his 
feet 

North.  A  bumper,  my  dear  Shepherd,  to  Mount  Benger. 

Shepherd.  Thank  ye,  sir,  thank  ye.  Oh  !  my  dear  sir,  but 
ye  hae  a  gude  heart,  sound  at  the  core  as  an  apple  on  the 
sunny  south  side  o'  the  tree — and  ruddy  as  an  apple,  sir,  is 
your  cheek — 

North.  Yes,  James,  a  life  of  temperance  preserves — 

Shepherd.  Help  yoursel,  and  put  ower  the  jug.  There's 
twunty  gude  years  o'  wear  and  tear  in  you  yet,  Mr.  North — 
but  what  for  wunna  ye  marry  ?  Dinna  be  frichtened — it's 
naething  ava — and  it  aften  grieves  my  heart  to  think  o'  you 
lyin  your  lane  in  that  state  bed,  which  canna  be  less  than 
seven  feet  wide,  when  the  General's  widow — 

North.  I  have  long  wished  for  an  opportunity  of  confiding 
to  you  a  secret  which — 

Shepherd.  A  sacret !  Tell  nae  sacret  to  me — for  I  never 
a'  my  life  could  sleep  wi'  a  sacret  in  my  head,  ony  mair  than 
wi'  the  lug-ache.  But  if  you're  merely  gauri  to  tell  me  that 


North's  Marriage.  305 

ye  hae  screwed  up  your  courage  at  last  to  marry  her,  say% 
do't  and  be  dune  wi't,  for  she's  a  comely  and  a  cosy  cretur  yon 
Mrs.  Gentle,  and  it  'ill  do  my  een  gude  to  see  you  marehin  up 
wi'  her,  haun  in  haun,  to  the  Hymeneal  Altar. 

North.  On  Christmas  day,  my  dear  James,  we  shall  be  one 
spirit. 

Shepherd.  And  ae  flesh.  Hurraw  !  hurraw  !  hurraw  !  Gie's 
your  haun  on  that,  my  auld  hearty  !  What  a  gran'  echo's  in 
yon  corner  o'  the  roof  !  hear  till't  smackiii  loofs  after  us,  as  if 
Cupid  himsel  were  in  the  cornice  ! 

North.  You  must  write  our  Epithalamium. 

Shepherd.  That  I  wull,  wi'  a'  my  birr,  and  sae  wull  Delta, 
and  sae  wull  the  Doctor,*  and  sae,  I'm  sure,  wull  Mr.  Wuds- 
worth  ;  and  I  can  answer  for  Sir  Walter — 

North.  Who  has  kindly  promised  to  give  away  the  Bride. 

Shepherd.  I  could  greet  to  think  that  I  canna  be  the  Best 
Man.f 

North.  Tickler  has — 

Shepherd.  Capital — capital !  I  see  him — look,  there  he  is — 
wi'  his  speck-and-span-new  sky-blue  coat  wi'  siller  buttons, 
snaw-white  waistcoat  wi'  gracefu'  flaps,  licht  casimer  knee- 
breeks  wi'  lang  ties,  flesh-colored  silk  stockings  wi'  flowered 
gushets,  pumps  brushed  up  to  a  perfeck  polish  a'  roun',  the 
buckles  crystal-set,  a  dash  o'  pouther  in  his  hair,  een  bricht 
as  diamonds,  the  face  o'  him  like  the  verra  sun,  chin  shaven 
smooth  as  satin,  mouth — saw  ye  ever  sic  teeth  in  a  man's 
head  at  his  time  o'  life  ? — mantlin  wi'  jocund  benisons,  and 
the  haill  Feegur  o'  the  incomparable  Fallow,  frae  tap  to  tae, 
sax  feet  fowre  inches  and  a  hauf  gude  measure,  instinck  wi' 
condolence  and  congratulation,  as  if  at  times  he  were  almost 
believing  Buchanan  Lodge  was  Southside — that  he  was 
changin  places  wi'  you,  in  a  sweet  sort  o'  jookery-pawkety 

*  Doctor  Maginn.  f  The  bridegroom's  man. 


306  Tlie  Oriel  Window  blown  in. 

— that  lie   was  Christopher  North,   and  Mrs.  Gentle  on  the 
verra  brink  o'  becoming  Mrs.  Tickler  ! 

North.  James,  you  make  me  jealous. 

Shepherd.  For  heaven's  sake,  sir,  dinna  split  on  that  rock. 
Remember  Othello,  and  hoo  he  smothered  his  wife  wi'  the 
bowster. 

North.  The  night  improves,  and  must  be  almost  at  its  best 
That  is  a  first-rate  howl!  Well  done — hail.  I  pity  the 
poor  hot-houses.  The  stones  cannot  be  less  than  sugar- 
almonds. 

Shepherd.  Shoogger-awmons  !  Th ey 're  like  guse  eggs.  If 
the  lozens*  werena  pawtent  plate,  lang  ere  noo  they  would 
hae  a'  flown  into  flinders.  But  they're  ball-proof.  They 
wadna  break  though  you  were  to  let  aff  a  pistol. 

North.  What,  James,  is  your  favorite  weather  ? 

Shepherd.  A  clear,  hard,  black  frost.  Sky  without  a  clud — 
sun  bright,  but  almost  cold — earth  firm  aneath  your  feet  as  a 
rock — trees  silent,  but  not  asleep,  wi'  their  budded  branches 
— ice-edged  rivers,  amaist  mute  and  motionless,  yet  wimplin 
a  wee,  and  murmuring  dozingly  as  in  a  dream — the  air  or 
atmosphere  sae  rarified  by  the  mysterious  alchemy  o'  that 
wonderfu'  Wuzzard  Wunter,  that  when  ye  draw  in  your 
breath,  ye're  no  sensible  o'  ha'in  ony  lungs. 

The  small  oriel  window  of  the  Snuggery  is  blown  in  with  a 
tremendous  crash.  NORTH  and  the  SHEPHERD  prostrated 
among  the  ruins. 

North.  Are  you  among  the  survivors,  James — wounded  or 
dead  ?  (An  awful  pause)  Alas  !  alas  !  who  will  write  my 
Epithalamium  !  And  must  I  live  to  see  the  day  on  which,  O 
gentle  Shepherd,  these  withered  hands  of  mine  must  falter 
thy  Epicedia ! 

Shepherd.  Oh,  tell  me,  sir,  if  the  toddy-jug  has  been  upset 

*  J.oz("na— panes  of  glass,  lozenge-shaped. 


Prostration  of  the  Shepherd.  307 

in  this  catastrophe,  or  the  Tower  of  Babel  and  a'  the 
speerits  ? 

North  (supporting  himself  on  his  elbow ',  and  eying  the  festal 
board).  Jug  and  Tower  are  both  miraculously  preserved 
amidst  the  ruins  ! 

Shepherd.  Then  am  I  a  dead  man,  and  lyin  in  a  pool  o'bluid. 
Oh  !  dear  me  !  Oh  !  dear  me  !  a  bit  broken  lozen  lias  cut  my 
jugular  ! 

North.  Don't  yet  give  yourself  up,  my  dear,  dear  Shepherd, 
for  a  dead  man.  Ay — here's  my  crutch — I  shall  be  on  my 
legs  presently — surely  they  cannot  both  be  broken ;  and  if  I 
can  but  get  at  my  tape-garter,  I  do  not  despair  of  being  able 
to  tie  up  the  carotid. 

Shepherd.  Pu'  the  bell  for  a  needle  and  thread. — What's 
this  ? — I'm  fen  tin  ! 

[The  SHEPHERD  faints  away ;  and  NORTH  having  recovered 
his  feet,  and  rung  the  bell  violently,  enter  Mr.  AMBROSE, 
Men.  CADET,  SIR  DAVID  GAM,  KING  PEPIN,  and 
TAPPYTOORIE,  cum  multis  aliis. 

North.  Away  for  Liston* — one  and  all  of  you,  away  like 
lightning  for  Liston  !  You  alone,  Ambrose,  support  Mr.  Hogg 
in  this,  1  fear,  mortal  swoon.  Don't  take  him  by  the  feet, 
Ambrose,  but  lift  up  his  head,  and  support  it  on  your  knee. 

[Mr.  AMBROSE,  greatly  flurried,  lut  with  much  tenderness 
obeys  the  mandate. 

Shepherd  (opening  his  eyes}.  Are  you  come  hither,  too,  Awm- 
rose  ?  'Tis  a  dreadfu'  place.  What  a  fire  !  But  let  us  speak 
low,  or  Clootie  t  'ill  hear  us.  Is  he  ben  the  house  ? — Oh  \ 
Mr.  North,  pity  me  the  day  !  are  you  here  too,  and  has  a'  our 
daffin  come  to  this  at  last  ? 

North.  Where,  my  dear  James,  do  you  think  you  are  ?  In 
the  Hotel. 

*  See  ante,  p.  21)8,  note  I.  t  Clootie— &  Scotch  name  for  the  devil. 


308  The  Shepherd's  Hallucination. 

Shepherd.  Ay,  ay,  Hothell  indeed!  I  swarf ed  awa  in  a 
bluidy  swoon,  and  hae  awaukened  in  a  fearfu'  eternity. 
Noctes  Ambrosianae  indeed  !  And  whare,  oh  !  whare  is  that 
puir,  short-haund,  harmless  body,  Gurney?  Hae  we  pu'dhim 
doun  wi'  us  to  the  bottomless  pit? 

North.  JNIr.  Ambrose,  let  me  support  his  head,  while  you 
bring  the  Tower  of  Babel. 

[  Mr.  AMBROSE  brings   the    Tower  of  Babel,  and  applies   the 
battlements  to  the  SHEPHERD'S  lips. 

Shepherd.  Whusky  here  !  I  daurna  taste  it,  for  it  can  be 
naething  but  melted  sulphur.  Yet,  let  me  just  pree't.  It 
has  a  maist  unearthly  similitude  to  Glenlivet.  Oh !  Mr. 
North — Mr.  North — tak  aff  thae  horns  frae  your  head,  for 
they're  awfu'  fearsome.  Hae  you  gotten  a  tail  too  ?  And 
are  you,  or  are  you  not,  answer  me  that  single  question,  an 
Imp  o'  Darkness  ? 

North.  Bear  a  hand,  Mr.  Ambrose,  and  give  Mr.  Hogg 
London-carries  to  his  chair. 

[  NORTH  and   AMBROSE  mutually  cross   wrists,  and  bear  the 
SHEPHERD  to  his  seat. 

Shepherd.  Hoo  the  wund  sughs  through  the  lozenless  wun 
dow,  awaukenin  into  tenfold  fury  the  Blast-Furnace. 

(Re-enter  Mon.  CADET,  KING  PEKIN,  SIR  DAVID  GAM, 
and  TAPPYTOORIE.) 

Mon.  Cadet.  Mr.  Liston  has  left  town  to  attend  the  Perth 
Breakneck,  which  has  had  an  overturn  on  Queensferry  Hill-^ 
and  'tis  said  many  legs  and  heads  are  fractured. 

Tappytoorie.  He'll  no  be  back  afore  midnicht. 

Ambrose  (chastising  Tappy).  How  dare  you  speak,  sir? 

North.  Most  unlucky  that  fche  capsize  had  not  been  delayed 
for  ten  minutes.  How  do  you  feel  now,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Feel?  I  never  was  better  in  my  life.  But 
wha-t's  the  matter  wi'  your  nose,  sir?  About  half-way  doun 


"  Do  you  believe  in  the  Devil  f  "  309 

the  middle,  it  has  taken  a  turn  at  right  angles  towards 
jour  left  lug.  Ane  o'  the  splinter-bars  o'  the  window  has 
bashed  it  frae  the  line  o'  propriety,  and  you're  a  fricht  for 
life.  Only  look  at  him,  gentlemen  ;  saw  ye  ever  siccan  a 
pheesiognomy  ? 

North.  Tarriers,  begone  !  [Exeunt  Omnes. 

Shepherd.  We're  twa  daft  fules — that's  sure  aneuch — and 
did  the  public  ken  o'  this,  the  idiwuts  wad  cry  out, 
"  Buffoonery — buffoonery  !  " — But  we  can  never  sit  here 
without  lozeus. 

Re-enter  Mr.  AMBROSE  and  a  Carpenter,  with  a 
new  Window-frame.) 

North.  Let  me  adjust  the  pulleys.  It  fits  to  a  hair.  Well 
done,  deacon.  Expedition's  the  soul  of  business — off  with 
your  caulk  r. — Thank  you — Good-night. 

[Mr.  AMBROSE  and  Carpenter,  exeunt  with  the  debris.] 

Shepherd.  Joking  and  jinks  apart,  Mr.  North,  there's  bluid 
on  your  nose.  Let  me  pit  a  bit  o'  black  stickin-plaister  on't. 
There — Mrs.  Gentle  wad  think  you  unco  killin  wi'  that  beauty 
spot  on  your  neb. 

North.  Hush. — Pray,  James,  do  you  believe  in  the  Devil  ? 

Shepherd.  Just  as  firmly  as  I  believe  in  you,  sir.  Yet,  I 
confess,  I  never  could  see  the  sin  in  abusin  the  ne'erdoweel ; 
whereas  mony  folk,  no  ower  and  aboon  religious  in  ither 
respects,  haud  up  their  hauns  and  the  whites  o'  their  een 
whenever  you  satireeze  Satan — and  cry  u  Whisht,  whisht !  " 
My  mind  never  yet  has  a'  my  days  got  rid  o'  ony  early  im 
pression  ;  and  against  baith  reason  and  revelation,  I  canna 
think  o'  the  Deevil  even  yet,  without  seein  him  wi'  great  big 
goggle  fiery  een,  a  mouth  like  a  foumart-trap,  the  horns  o'  a 
Lancashire  kyloe,  and  a  tufted  tail  atween  that  o'  a  bill's,  a 
lion's  and  a  teegger's.  Let  me  see  him  when  I  wull,  sleepin 
or  wai  kin,  he's  aye  the  verra  leevin  image  o'  a  woodcut. 


810  Hogg  on  "  flornie" 

North.  Mr.  Southey,  in  some  of  his  inimitable  ballads,  has 
turned  him  into  such  ridicule  that  he  has  laid  his  tail  entirely 
aside,  screwed  off  his  horns,  hid  his  hoofs  in  Wellingtons,  and 
appeared,  of  late  years,  in  shape  and  garb  more  worthy  of  the 
Prince  of  the  Air. 

Shepherd.  Ay,  Mr.  Southey's  a  real  wutty  man,  forbye 
being  a  great  poet.  But  do  you  ken,  for  a'  that,  my  hair 
stands  on  end  o'  its  tinglin  roots,  and  my  skin  amaist  crawls 
aff  my  body,  whenever,  by  a  blink  o'  the  storm-driven  moon 
in  a  mirk  nicht,  I  chance  to  forgather  wi'  auld  Clootie, 
Hornie,  and  Tuft-tail,  in  the  middle  o'  some  wide  moor 
amang  hags,  and  peat-mosses,  and  quagmires,  nae  house 
within  mony  miles,  and  the  uncertain  weather-gleam,  black 
ened  by  some  auld  woods,  swingin  and  sughin  to  the  wind 
as  if  hotchin  wi'  warlocks. 

North.  Poo — I  should  at  once  take  the  bull  by  the  horns — 
or,  seizing  him  by  the  tail,  drive  him.  with  my  crutch  into  the 
nearest  loch. 

Shepherd.  It's  easy  speakin.  But  you  see,  he  never 
appears  to  a  man  that's  no  frichtened  aforehaun  out  o'  his 
seven  senses — and  imagination  is  the  greatest  cooard  on 
earth,  breakin  out  into  a  cauld  sweat,  his  heart  loup-loupin, 
like  a  fish  in  a  creel,  and  the  retina  o'  his  ee  representin  a' 
things,  mair  especially  them  that's  ony  way  infernal,  in  grue 
some  features,  dreadfully  disordered  ;  till  reason  is  shaken, 
by  the  same  panic,  judgment  lost,  and  the  haill  sowl  distract 
ed  in  the  insanity  o'  Fear,  till  you're  nae  better  than  a  stark- 
staring  madman. 

North.  Good,  James — good. 

Shepherd.  In  sic  a  mood  could  ony  Christian  cretur,  even 
Mr.  Southey  himsel,  tak  hand  o'  the  deil  either  by  the  horns 
or  the  tail  ? — Mair  likely  that  in  frenzied  desperation  you  loup 
wi'  a  spang  on  the  bristly  back  o'  the  Evil  Ane,  wha  gallops 


"  Pyets  are  no  canny'*  311 

aff  \vi'  you  demented  into  some  loch,  where  you  aie  found 
floatin  in  the  mornin  a  swollen  corp,  wi'  the  mark  o'  claws 
on  your  hause,  your  een  hangin  out  o'  their  sockets,  your 
head  scalped  wi'  something  waur  than  a  tammyhawk,  and 
no  a  single  bane  in  your  body  that's  no  grund  to  mash 
like  a  malefactor's  on  the  wheel  for  having  curst  the  Holy 
Inquisition. 

North.  Why,  my  dear  Shepherd,  genius,  I  feel,  can  render 
terrible  even  the  meanest  superstition. 

Shepherd.  Meanness  and  majesty  signify  naething  in  the 
supernatural.  I've  seen  an  expression  in  the  een  o'  a  pyet,* 
wi'  its  head  turned  to  the  ae  side,  and  though  in  general  a 
shy  bird,  no  caring  for  you  though  you  present  your  rungf  at 
it  as  if  you  were  gauri  to  shoot  it  wi'  a  gun,  that  has  made 
my  verra  heart-strings  crunkle  up  wi'  the  thochts  o'  some 
indefinite  evil  comin,  I  kent  na  frae  what  quarter  o'  the 
lowerin  heavens. — For  pyets,  at  certain  times  and  places,  are 
no  canny,  and  their  nebs  look  as  if  they  were  peckin  at 
mortcloths. 

North.  Cross  him  out,  James-— cross  him  out. 

Shepherd.  A  raven  ruggin  at  the  booels  o'  a  dead  horse  is 
naething ;  but  ane  sittin  a'  by  himsel  on  a  rock,  in  some 
lanely  glen,  and  croak-croakin,  naebody  can  think  why,  noo 
lookin  savagely  up  at  the  sun,  and  noo  tearin,  no  in  hunger, 
for  his  crap's  fu'  o'  carrion,  but  in  anger  and  rage,  the  mosd 
aneath  him  wi'  beak  or  tawlons  ;  and  though  you  shout  at 
him  wi'  a'  your  micht.  never  steerin  a  single  fit  frae  his 
stance,  but  absolutely  lauchin  at  you  wi'  a  horrid  guller  in 
the  sooty  throat  o'  him,  in  derision  o'  you,  ane  o'  God  8 
reasonable  creturs, — I  say,  sir,  that  sic  a  bird,  wi'  sic  unac- 
coontable  conduct,  in  sic  an  inhuman  solitude,  is  a  frichtsome 
demon ;  and  that  when  you  see  him  hop-hoppin  awa  wi' 

*  Pyet— a.  magpie.  f  Uung— walking  staff. 


312  The  Shepherd  paints. 

great  jumps  in  amang  the  region  o'  rocks,  you  wadna  follow 
him  into  his  auncient  lair  for  ony  consideration  whatsomever, 
but  turn  your  face  doun  the  glen,  and  thank  God  at  the 
sound  o'  some  distant  bagpipe.  A'  men  are  augurs.  Yet, 
sitting  here,  what  care  I  for  a  raven  mair  than  for  a  how- 
to  wdie  ? 

North.  The  devil  in  Scotland,  during  the  days  o'  witch 
craft,  was  a  most  contemptible  character. 

Shepherd.  Sae  muckle  the  better.  It  showed  that  sin  maun 
be  a  low,  base  state,  when  a  superstitious  age  could  embody 
it  in  a  nae  mair  imposing  impersonation. 

North.  Perhaps  it  is  wrong  to  despise  anything ;  and  cer 
tainly,  in  the  highest  Christian  light,  it  is  so.  Wordsworth 
finely  sayp,  "  He  who  feels  contempt  for  any  living  thing  has 
faculties  which  he  has  never  used."  ^ 

Shepherd.  Then  Wudsworth  has  faculties  in  abundance  that 
he  has  never  used  ;  for  he  feels  contempt  for  every  leevin 
thing,  in  the  shape  either  o'  man  or  woman,  that  can  write  as 
gude  or  better  poetry  than  himsel — which  I  alloo  is  no  easy  ; 
but  still  it's  possible,  and  has  been  dune,  and  will  be  dune 
again,  by  me  and  ithers.  But  that's  rinnin  awa  frae  the 
subject.  ...  To  my  lugs,  sir,  the  maist  shockin  epithet  in 
our  language  is — Apostate.  Soon  as  you  hear  it,  you  see  a 
man  selling  his  sowl  to  the  deevil.' 

North.  To  Mammon. 

Shepherd.  Belial  or  Beelzebub.  I  look  to  the  mountains, 
Mr.  North,  and  stern  they  stand  in  a  glorious  gloom,  for  the 
sun  is  strugglin  wi'  a  thunder-cloud,  and  facing  him  a  faint 
but  fast-brichtenin  rainbow.  The  ancient  spirit  o'  Scotland 
comes  on  me  frae  the  sky,  and  the  sowl  within  me  re-swears 
in  silence  the  oath  o'  the  Covenant.  There  they  are — the 
Covenanters — a'  gathered  thegither,  no  in  fear  and  tremblin, 
but  wi'  Bibles  in  their  bosoms,  and  swords  by  their  sides,  in  a 


TJie  Covenanters1  Meeting.  813 

glen  deep  as  the  sea.  and  still  as  death,  but  for  the  sound  o* 
a  stream  and  the  cry  o'  an  eagle.  "  Let  us  sing,  to  the  praise 
and  glory  of  God,  the  hundredth  Psalm,"  quoth  a  loud,  clear 
voice,  though  it  be  the  voice  o'  an  auld  man  ;  and  up  to 
Heaven  bauds  he  his  strang  withered  hauns,  and  in  the 
gracious  wunds  o'  heaven  are  flying  abroad  his  grey  hairs  or 
say,  rather,  white  as  the  silver  or  the  snaw. 

North.  Oh  for  Wilkie  ! 

Shepherd.  The  eagle  and  the  stream  are  silent,  and  the 
heavens  and  the  earth  are  brocht  close  thegither  by  that 
triumphin  psalm.  Ay,  the  clouds  cease  their  sailing,  and  lie 
still ;  the  mountains  bow  their  heads ;  and  the  crags,  do  they 
not  seem  to  listen,  as  in  that  remote  place  the  hour  o'  the 
delighted  day  is  filled  with  a  holy  hymn  to  the  Lord  God  o' 
Israel ? 

North.  My  dear  Shepherd  ! 

Shepherd.  Oh  !  if  there  should  be  sittin  there — even  in  that 
congregation,  on  which,  like  God's  own  eye,  looketh  down  the 
meridian  sun,  now  shinin  in  the  blue  region — an  Apostate  ! 

North.  The  thought  is  terrible. 

Shepherd.  But  na,  na,  na  !  See  that  bonny  blue-eed,  rosy- 
cheeked,  gowden-haired  lassie — only  a  thought  paler  than 
usual,  sweet  lily  tha£  she  is — half-sittin,  half-lyin  on  the 
greensward,  as  she  leans  on  the  knee  o'  her  stalwart  grand 
father — for  the  sermon's  begun,  and  all  eyes  are  fastened  on 
the  preacher, — look  at  her  till  your  heart  melts  as  if  she  were 
your  ain,  and  God  had  given  you  that  beautifu'  wee  image 
o'  her  sainted  mother,  and  tell  me  if  you  think  that  a'  the 
tortures  that  cruelty  could  devise  to  inflict,  would  ever  wring 
frae  thae  sweet  innocent  lips  ae  word  o'  abjuration  o'  the 
faith  in  which  the  flower  is  growing  up  amang  the  dewdraps 
o'  her  native  hills  ? 

North.  Never — never — never  ! 


314  Hogg  as  an  Eagle. 

Shepherd  She  proved  it,  sir,  in  death.  Tied  to  a  stake  on 
the  sea-sands  she  stood ;  and  first  she  heard,  and  then  she 
saw,  the  white  roarin  o'  the  tide.  But  the  smile  forsook  not 
her  face ;  it  brichtened  in  her  een  when  the  water  reached 
her  knee  ;  calmer  and  calmer  was  her  voice  of  prayer,  as  it 
beat  again'  her  bonny  breast ;  nae  shriek  when  a  wave  closed 
her  lips  for  ever  ;  and  methinks,  sir — for  ages  on  ages  hae 
lapsed  awa  sin'that  martyrdom,  and  therefore  Imagination  may 
withouten  blame  dally  wi'  grief — methink,  sir,  that  as  her 
golden  head  disappeared,  'twas  like  a  star  sinkin  in  the  sea ! 

North.  God  bless  you,  my  dearest  James  !  shake  hands  ! 

Shepherd.  When  I  think  on  these  things — in  olden  times 
the  produce  o'  the  common  day — and  look  aroun'  me  noo,  I 
could  wush  to  steek  my  een  in  the  darkness  o'  death ;  for 
dearly  as  I  love  it  still,  alas  !  alas !  I  am  ashamed  o'  my 
country.  ...  Eh  ?  What  ? 

North.  Whisht !  Had  you  your  choice,  James,  pray  what 
sort  of  a  bird  would  you  be  ? 

Shepherd.  I  wad  transmigrate  intil  a  gey  hantle.  And, 
first  and  foremost,  for  royal  ambition  is  the  poet's  sin,  I 
would  be  an  Eagle.  Higher  than  ever  in  his  balloon  did 
Lunardi  soar,  would  I  shoot  up  into  heaven.  Poised  in  that 
empyreal  air,  where  nae  storm-current  flows,  far  up  aboon 
the  region  of  clouds,  with  wide-spread  and  unquivering  wings 
would  I  hang  in  the  virgin  sunshine.  Nae  human  ee  should 
see  me  in  my  cerulean  tabernacle — but  mine  should  see  the 
human  specks  by  the  sides  of  rocks  and  rivers,  creeping  and 
crawling,  like  worms  as  they  are,  over  their  miserable  earthly 
flats,  or  toiling,  like  reptiles  as  they  are,  up  their  majestic 
molehills.  Down  with  a  sughing  sweep  in  one  moment 
would  I  descend  a  league  of  atmosphere,  still  miles  and  miles 
above  all  the  dwarf  mountain-taps  and  pigmy  forests.  Ae 
headlong  lapse  mair,  and  my  ears  would  drink  the  faint 


North  is  "  coomed"  315 

thunder  of  some  puny  cataract ;  another  mile  in  a  moment 
nearer  the  poor  humble  earth,  and,  lo  !  the  woods  are  what 
men  call  majestic,  the  vales  wide,  and  the  mountains  magnifi 
cent.  That  pitiful  bit  of  smoke  is  a  city — a  metropolitan 
city.  I  cross  it  wi'  ae  wave  of  my  wing. — The  roar  of 
ocean — what — what's  that  I  hear?  You  auld  mannerless 
rascal,  is  that  you  I  hear  snorin?  Ma  faith,  gin  I  was  an 
eagle,  I  wad  scart  your  haffits  wi'  my  tawlons,  and  try 
which  o'  our  nebs  was  the  sharpest.  Weel,  that's  maist 
extraordinar — he  absolutely  snores  on  a  different  key  wi 
each  o'  his  twa  individual  nostrils — snorin  a  first  and  second 
like  a  catch  or  glee.  I  wunner  if  he  can  snore  by  the  notes 
— or  trusts  entirely  to  his  dreaming  ear.  It's  really  no  that 
unharmonious — and  I  think  I  hear  him  accompanying  Mrs. 
Gentle  on  the  spiimet.  Let's  coom  his  face  wi'  burned  cork. 

{The  SHEPHERD  applies  a  cork  to  thejire,  and  makes  NORTH 
a  Blackamoor. 

North.  Be  not  so  coy — so  cold — my  love.  "  Can  danger 
lurk  within  a  kiss  ?  " 

Shepherd.  Othello— Othello— Othello  ! 

North  (awaking  with  a  tremendous  yawn).  'Tis  gone— 
'twas  but  a  dream ! 

Shepherd.  Ay,  ay,  what's  that  you  were  dreamin  about 
sir  ?  Your  face  is  a'  ower  blushes — just  like  a  white  rose 
tinged  with  the  setting  sun. 

North.  I  sometimes  speak  in  my  sleep.    Did  I  do  so  now  ? 

Shepherd.  If  you  did,  sir,  I  did  not  hear  you — for  I  have 
been  takin  a  nap  mysel,  and  just  awaukened  this  moment 
wi'  a  fa'  frae  the  cock  on  a  kirk-steeple.  I  hae  often  odd 
dreams  ;  and  I  thocht  I  got  astride  o'  the  cock,  and  was 
haudin  on  by  the  tail,  when  the  feathers  gave  way,  and  had 
it  not  been  a  dream,  I  should  infallibly  have  been  dashed  to 
pieces.  Do  you  ever  dream  o'  kissing,  sir  ? 


316  At  the  Looking-glass. 

North.  Fie,  James! 

Shepherd.  Oh,  but  you  look  quite  captivatin,  quite  seducin, 
when  you  blush  that  gate,  sir !  I  never  could  admire  a  dark- 
complexioned  man. 

North.  I  do — and  often  wish  mine  had  been  dark — 

Shepherd.  Ye  made  a  narrow  escape  the  noo,  sir ;  for  out 
o'  revenge  for  your  havin  ance  coomed  my  face  when  I  fell 
asleep  on  my  chair,  I  was  within  an  ace  of  coomin  yours — 

North  (starting  up  furiously).  A  coomed  face?  Have  you 
dared,  you  swineherd,  to  cork  my  face  ?  If  you  have,  you 
shall  repent  it  till  the  latest  day  of  your  life. 

Shepherd.  You  surely  will  forgive  me  when  you  hear  I 
am  on  my  deathbed — 

North  (at  the  mirror}.   Blackguard  ! 

Shepherd.  'Tweel  you're  a'  that.  I  ca'  that  epithet  multum 
in  parvo.  You're  a  maist  complete  blackguard — that's  beyond 
a'  manner  o'  dout.  What'n  whites  o'  een  !  and  what'n  whites 
o'  teeth  !  But  your  hair's  no  half  grizzly  aneuch  for  a  blacka 
moor — at  least  an  African  ane — and  gies  you  a  sort  o'  un 
canny,  mongrel  appearance  that  wad  frichten  the  King  o' 
Congo. 

North.  Talking  with  a  face  as  black  as  the  crown  of  my 
hat! 

Shepherd.  And  a  great  deal  blacker.  The  croon  o'  your 
hat's  broon,  and  I  wunner  you're  no  ashamed,  sir,  to  wear't 
on  the  streets !  but  your  face,  sir,  is  as  black  as  the  back  o' 
that  chimley,  and  baith  wad  be  muckle  the  better  o'  the 
sweeps. 

North.  James,  I  have  ever  found  it  impossible  to  be  irate 
with  you  more  than  half  a  minute  at  a  time  during  these  last 
twenty  years.  I  forgive  you — and  do  you  know  that  I  do 
not  look  so  much  amiss  in  cork.  'Pon  honor — 

Shepherd.  It's  a  great  improvement  on  you,  sir — and  1 


The  Prize  Goose.  317 

would  seriously  advise  you  to  coom  your  face  every  day 
when  you  dress  for  denner.     Let's  order  sooper. 

North.  Well,  James,  be  it  so. 

(As  the  SHEPHERD  rises  to  ring  the  bell,  the  Timepiece 
strikes  Ten,  and  PICARDY  enters  with  his  Tail.) 

Shepherd.  Ye  dinna  mean  to  say,  Mr.  Awmrose,  that  that's 
a'  the  sooper  ?  Only  the  roun',  a  cut  o'  sawmon,  beefsteaks, 
and  twa  brodds  o'  eisters !  This  '11  never  do,  Awmrose. 
Remember  there's  a  couple  o'  us — and  that  a  sooper  that 
may  be  no  amiss  for  ane  may  be  little  better  than  starvation 
to  twa  ;  especially  if  them  twa  be  in  the  prime  and  vigor  o' 
life,  hae  come  in  frae  the  kintra,  and  got  yaup  *  ower  some 
half-dizzen  jugs  o'  strang  whusky-toddy. 

Ambrose  (bowing).  The  boiled  turkey  and  the  roasted 
ducks  will  be  on  the  table  forthwith — unless,  Mr.  Hogg, 
you  would  prefer  a  goose  which  last  week  won  a  sweep 
stakes — 

Shepherd.  What  ?  at  Perth  races  ?  Was  he  a  bluid-guse, 
belangin  to  a  member  o'  the  Caledonian  Hunt  ? 

Ambrose  (smiling).  No,  Mr.  Hogg — there  was  a  competi 
tion  between  six  parishes  which  should  produce  the  greatest 
goose,  and  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  purchase  the  successful 
candidate,  who  was  laid,  hatched,  and  brought  up  at  the 
Manse  of — 

Shepherd.  I  ken  the  successful  candidate  brawly. — Wasna 
he  a  white  ane,  wi'  a  tremendous  doup  that  soopt  the  grun', 
and  hadna  he  contracted  a  habit  o'  turnin  in  the  taes  o'  his 
left  fit  ? 

Ambrose.  The  same,  sir.  He  weighed,  ready  for  spit, 
twenty  pounds  jump— feathers  and  giblets  four  pounds  more. 
Nor  do  I  doubt,  Mr.  North,  that  had  your  Miss  Nevison  had 
him  for  a  fortnight  longer  at  the  Lodge,  she  would  have 

•  Yaup— hungry. 


318  A  Game  at  Leap-frog. 

fattened  him  (for  he  is  a  gander)  up  to  thirty, — that  is  to 
gay,  with  all  his  paraphernalia. 

Shepherd.  Show  him  in ;   raw  or  roasted,  show  him  in. 
(Enter  KING  PEPIN  and  SIR  DAVID  GAM,  with  the  successful 
candidate,  supported  by  Mon.  CADET  and  TAPPYTOORIE.) 
What  a  strapper !     Puir  chiel,  I  wadna  hae  kent  him,  sae 
changed  is   he  frae  the  time  I  last  saw  him  at  the   Manse, 
takin  a  walk  in  the  cool  o'  the  Saturday  e'ening,  wi'  his  wife 
and  family,  and  ever  and  anon  gabblin  to  himsel  in  a  sort  o' 
undertone,  no  unlike  a  minister  rehearsin  his  sermon  for  the 
coming  Sabbath. 

North.  How  comes  he  to  be  ready  roasted,  Ambrose  ? 
Ambrose.  A  party  of  twenty  are  about  to  sup  in  the  Saloon, 
and — 

Shepherd.  Set  him  doun  ;  and  if  the  gentlemen  wuss  to  see 
North  cut  up  a  guse,  show  the  score  into  the  Snuggery. 

[  The  successful  candidate  is  safely  got  on  the  board. 
Hear  hoo  the  table  groans  ! 

North.  I  feel  my  limbs  rather  stiffish  with  sitting  so  long. 
Suppose,  James,  that  we  have  a  little  leap-frog. 

Shepherd.  Wi'  a'  my  heart.  Let  me  arrange  the  forces 
roun'  the  table.  Mr.  Awmrose,  staun'  you  there — Mon. 
Cadet,  fa'  intil  the  rear  o'  your  brither — Pippin,  twa  yairds 
ahint  Awmrose  junior — Sir  Dawvit,  dress  by  his  Majesty— 
and  Tappytoorie,  turn  your  back  upon  me.  Noo,  lout  doun 
a'  your  heads.  Here  goes. — Keep  the  pie  warm. 

[The  SHEPHERD  vaults  away,  and  the  whole  circle  is  in 
perpetual  motion;  NORTH  distinguished  by  his  agility  in 
the  ring. 

North  (piping).  Heads  all  up — no  louting.  There,  James, 
I  topped  you  without  touching  a  hair. 

Shepherd,  Mirawculous  auld  man !  A  lameter  too !  I  nevei 
felt  his  hauns  on  my  shouther ! 


Tickler  wins.  319 

Ambrose.  I'm  rather  short  of  breath,  and  must  drop  out  of 
the  line. 

[Mr.  AMBROSE  drops  out  of  the  line,  and  his  place  is  supplied 
by  TICKLER,  who  at  that  moment  has  entered  the  room  un 
observed. 

Shepherd  (coming  unexpectedly  upon  Tickler).  Here's  a 
steeple  !  What  glamory's  this? 

North.  Stand  aloof,  James,  and  I'll  clear  the  weathercock 
on  the  spire. 

[NORTH,  using  his  crutch  as  a  leaping-pole,  clears  TICKLER 
in  grand  style;  but  TAPPYTOORIE,  the  next  in  the 
series,  boggles,  and  remains  balanced  on  SOUTHSIDE'S 
shoulders. 

Tickler.  Firm  on  your  pins,  North.     I'm  coming. 
[TICKLER,    with    TAPPYTOORIE    on    his    shoulders,   clears 

CHRISTOPHER  in  a  canter. 
Omnes.  Huzza  !  huzza  !  huzza  ! 

North  (addressing  TICKLER).  Mr.  Tickler,  it  gives  me 
great  pleasure  to  present  to  you  the  Silver  Frog,  which  I  am 
sure  will  never  be  disgraced  by  your  leaping. 

[TICKLER  stoops  his  head,  and  NORTH  hangs  the  Prize  Silver 
Frog,  by   a   silver  chain,  round  his  neck;  TAPPYTOORIE 
dismounts,  and  the  Three  sit  down  to  supper. 
Shepherd.  Some  sax  or  seven  slices  o'  the  breist,  sir,  and 
dinna  spare  the  stuffin. — Mr.  Awmrose,  gie  my  trencher  a 
gude    clash    o'  aipple-sass. — Potawtoes.     Thank  ye. — Noo, 
some  o'  the  smashed. — Tappy,  the  porter. — What  guse  ! ! ! 

Tickler.  Cut  the  apron  off  the  bishop,   North ;  but  you 
must  have  a  longer  spoon  to  get  into  the  interior. 
Ambrose.  Here  is  a  punch-ladle,  sir. 

Shepherd.  Gie  him  the  great  big  silver  soup  ane. — Sic  sage  ! 
Tickler.  Why,  that  is  liker   the  leg  of  a  sheep  than  of  a 
goose. 


320  The  dander  is  discussed. 

Shepherd.  Awmrose,  my  man,  dinna  forget  the  morn  *  to 
let  us  hae  the  giblets. — Pippin,  the  mustard. — Mr.  North,  as 
naebody  seems  to  be  axin  for't,  gie  me  the  bishop's  apron,  it 
seems  sappy.  What  are  ye  gaun  to  eat  yoursel,  sir  ?  Dinna 
mind  helpin  me,  but  attend  to  your  nain  sooper. 

North.  James,  does  not  the  side  of  the  breast  which  I  have 
now  been  hewing  remind  you  of  Salisbury  Crags  ? 

Shepherd.  It's  verra  precipitous.  The  skeleton  maun  be 
sent  to  the  College  Museum,  to  staun'  at  the  fit  o'  the 
elephant,  the  rhinoceros,  and  the  cammyleopardawlis ;  and 
that  it  mayna  be  spiled  by  unskilful  workmanship,  I  vote 
we  finish  him  cauld  the  morn  afore  we  yoke  to  the  giblet- 
pie.  [  Carried  nem.  con. 

Tickler.  Goose  always  gives  me  a  pain  in  my  stomach. 
But  to  purchase  pleasure  at  a  certain  degree  of  pain  is  true 
philosophy.  So,  my  dear  North,  another  plateful.  James, 
a  caulker  ? 

Shepherd.  What's  your  wull  ? 

Tickler.  Oh  !  nothing  at  all.— Ambrose,  the  Glenlivet  to 
Mr.  North. — Mr.  Hogg,  I  believe,  never  takes  it  during 
supper. 

[The   SHEPHERD   tips   AMBROSE   the  wink,  and  the  gurgle 

goes  round  the  table. 

[Silence,   with   slight  interruptions,  and  no  conversation  for 
about  three-quarters  of  an  hour. 

NATHAN  GURNET. 

Shepherd.  I  had  nae  previous  idea  that  steaks  eat  sae 
capital  after  guse.  Some  sawmon.f 

North.  Stop,  James.  Let  all  be  removed,  except  the  fish — 

*  The  morn— to-morrow. 

t  "  No  greater  compliment,"  says  a  recent  writer,  «  was  ever  paid  to  Pro- 
fessor  Wilson  than  by  the  hypochondriac  who,  after  failing  to  obtain  an 
appetite  from  tonics,  was  beguiled  into  reading  the  A'ncfes,  and  at  once  '  set 
In  for  serious  eating  '  with  the  will  of  the  Shepherd  himself." 


"  Lord  Eldon  "  is  introduced.  321 

to  wit,  the  salmon,  the  rizzards,  the  speldrins,  the  herrings, 
and  the  oysters. 

Shepherd.  And  bring  some  mair  fresh  anes.  Mr.  Awm- 
rose,  you  maun  mak  a  deal  o'  siller  by  sellin  your  eister-shells 
for  manur  to  the  farmers  a'  roun'  about  Embro'  ?  They're 
as  gude's  lime — indeed,  I'm  thinkin  they  are  lime — a  sort  o' 
sea-lime,  growing  on  rocks  by  the  shore,  and  a  coatin  at  the 
same  time  to  leevin  and  edible  creturs.  Oh,  the  wonnerfu' 
warks  o'  Nature ! 

North.  Then  wheeling  the  circular  to  the  fire,  let  us  have 
a  parting  jug  or  two — 

Shepherd.  Each? 

(Enter  MR.  AMBROSE  with  LORD  ELDON.) 

North.  Na !  here's  his  Lordship  full  to  the  brim.  He 
holds  exactly  one  gallon,  Imperial  Measure ;  and  that  quantity, 
according  to  Mrs.  Ambrose's  recipe,  cannot  hurt  us — 

Shepherd.  God  bless  the  face  o'  him  ! 

Tickler.  Pray,  James,  is  it  a  true  bill  that  you  have  had 
the  hydrophobia  ? 

Shepherd.  Ower  true ;  but  I'll  gie  you  a  description  o't  at 
our  next.  Meanwhile,  let's  ca'  in  that  puir  cretur  Gurney, 
and  gie  him  a  drap  drink.  Nawthan  !  Nawthan  !  Nawthan  ! 

Gurney  (in  a  shrill  voice  from  the  interior  of  the  Ear  of  Diony- 
oius).  Here — here — here! 

Shepherd.  What'n  a  vice  !  Like  a  young  ratton  *  squaakin 
ahint  the  lath  and  plaister. 

North.  No  rattons  here,  James.  Mr.  Gurney  is  true  as 
steel. 

Shepherd.  Reserve  that  short  similie  for  yoursel,  sir ! 
Oh,  sir,  but  you're  elastic  as  a  drawn  Damascus  swurd.  Lean 
a'  your  wecht  on't,  wi'  the  pint  on  the  grun,  but  fear  na, 
while  it  bends,  that  it  will  break  ;  for  back  again  frae  the 

*  Ration — rat. 

21 


322  North's  Cat  and  Thrust. 

semicircle  springs  if  in  a  second  in  til  the  straught  line  ;  and 
woe  be  to  him  wha  daurs  that  cut  and  thrust !  for  it  gangs 
through  his  body  like  licht  through  a  wundow,  and  before 
the  sinner  kens  he  is  wounded,  you  turn  him  ower  on  his 
back,  sir,  stane-dead ! 

[Mr.  GURNEY  joins  the  party,  and  the  curtain  of  course  falls. 


XXI. 

IN   WHICH,    THE   ENGLISH    OPIUM-EATER    DINING 

WITH  THE  THREE,  THE  SHEPHERD  MOUNTS 

BONASSUS. 

Scene, —  The  Saloon,  illuminated  by  the  grand  Gas  Orrery. 
Time, — First  of  April — Six  o'clock.  Present, — NORTH, 
the  ENGLISH  OPIUM  EATER,*  the  SHEPHERD,  TICKLER, 
in  Court-Dresses.  The  three  celebrated  young  Scottish 
LEANDERS,  with  their  horns,  in  the  hanging  gallery.  AIR  : 
"  Brose  and  Brochan  and  a\" 


TICKLER. 


•duos  UMoag 


-dnog  *8iqiD 


Mulligatawny.  Scotch  Broth.  Cocky-Leeky.  A 


Potato  Soup 


White  Soup 


ENGLISH  OPIUM-EATER. 


Shepherd.  Dinna  abuse  Burns,  Mr.  De  Quinshy.     Neithei 

*  Thomas  De  Quincey  has  been  already  referred  to  more  than  once  in  the 

course  of  these  dialogues.    Now  he  is  introduced  as  an  interlocutor  ;   and, 

If  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  so,  the  general  character  of  his  conversation 

has   been   imitated   not   infelicitously  by  his   friend  the   Professor.    But 

323 


324  The  English  Opium-Eater. 

you  nor  ony  ither  Englishman  can  thoroughly  understaun* 
three  sentences  o'  his  poems — 

English  Opium- Eater  (with  much  animation}.  I  have  for 
some  years  past  longed  for  an  opportunity  to  tear  into  pieces 
that  gross  national  delusion,  born  of  prejudice,  ignorance,  and 
bigotry,  in  which,  from  highest  to  lowest,  all  literary  classes 
of  Scotchmen  are  as  it  were  incarnated — to  wit,  a  belief, 
strong  as  superstition,  that  all  their  various  dialects  must  be 
as  unintelligible,  as  I  grant  that  most  of  them  are  uncouth 
and  barbarous  to  English  ears — even  to  those  of  the  most 
accomplished  and  consummate  scholars.  Whereas,  to  a 
Danish,  Norwegian,  Swedish,  Saxon,  German,  French,  Italian, 
Spanish — and  let  me  add,  Latin  and  Greek  scholar,  there  is 
not  even  a  monosyllable  that — 

Shepherd.  What's  a  gowpen  o'  glaur  ? 

English  Opium-Eater.  Mr.  Hogg — sir,  I  will  not  be  inter 
rupted— 

Shepherd.  You  canna  tell.  It's  just  twa  neif-fu's  o* 
darts.* 

North.  James — James — James ! 

Shepherd.  Kit — Kit — Kit.  But  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  De 
Quinshy — afore  denner  I  am  aye  unco  snappish.  I  admit 
you're  a  great  grammarian.  But  kennin  something  o'  a 
language  by  bringin  to  bear  upon't  a'  the  united  efforts  o' 
knowledge  and  understaunin — baith  first-rate — is  ae  thing, 
and  feelin  every  breath  and  every  shadow  that  keeps  playin 
ower  a'  its  syllables,  as  if  by  a  natural  and  born  instinct,  is 
anither ;  the  first  you  may  aiblins  hae — naebody  likelier, — 
but  to  the  second,  nae  man  may  pretend  that  hasna  had  the 

the  reader  who  would  learn  what  Mr.  De  Quincey  himself  is  in  propridper- 
sond— what  fascinating  powers    of   eloquence  he  possesses— how  deep  hia 
poetical  sensibilities  are— and  how  profound  his  philosophical    acumen- 
must  be  referred  to  his  collected  works.    [De  Quincey  died  in  1859.] 
•  Two  handfuls  of  mud. 


On  the  Scottish  Tongue.  325 

happiness  and  the  honor  o'  havin  been  born  and  bred  in 
bonny  Scotland.  What  can  ye  ken  o'  Kilmeny  ? 

English  Opium-Eater  (smiling  graciously).  'Tis  a  ballad 
breathing  the  sweetest,  simplest,  wildest  spirit  of  Scottish 
traditionary  song — music,  as  of  some  antique  instrument,  long 
lost,  but  found  at  last  in  the  Forest  among  the  decayed  roots 
of  trees,  and  touched,  indeed,  as  by  an  instinct,  by  the  only 
man  who  could  reawaken  its  sleeping  chords — the  Ettrick 
Shepherd. 

Shepherd.  Na — if  you  say  that  sincerely — and  I  never  saw 
a  broo  smoother  wi'  truth  than  your  ain — I  maun  qualify 
my  former  apothegm,  and  alloo  you  to  be  an  exception  frae 
the  general  rule.  I  wush,  sir,  you  would  write  a  Glossary 
o'  the  Scottish  Language.  I  ken  naebody  fitter. 

North.  Our  distinguished  guest  is  aware  that  this  is  "  All 
Fool's  Day," — and  must,  on  that  score,  pardon  these  court- 
dresses.  We  consider  them,  my  dear  sir,  appropriate  to  this 
Anniversary. 

Shepherd.  Mine  wasna  originally  a  court-dress.  It's  the 
uniform  o'  the  Border  Club.  But  nane  o'  the  ither  members 
would  wear  them,  except  me  and  the  late  Dyuk  o'  Buccleuch. 
So  when  the  King  cam  to  Scotland,  and  expeckit  to  be  intro 
duced  to  me  at  Holyroodhouse,  I  got  the  tiler  at  Yarrow- 
Ford  to  cut  itdoun  after  a  patron  *  frae  Embro' — 

English  Opium-Eater.  Green  and  gold — to  my  eyes  the 
most  beautiful  of  colors, — the  one  characteristic  of  earth,  the 
other  of  heaven — and  therefore,  the  two  united,  emblematic 
of  genius. 

Shepherd.  Oh  !  Mr.  De  Quinshy — sir,  but  you're  a  pleasant 
cretur — arid  were  I  ask't  to  gie  a  notion  o'  your  mainners  to 
them  that  had  never  seen  you,  I  should  just  use  twa  words, 
Urbanity  and  Amenity — meanin,  by  the  first,  that  saft,  bricht 

*  Patron — pattern. 


326  The  Swords  are  laid  aside. 

polish  that  a  man  gets  by  leevin  amang  gentleman  scholars 
in  touns  and  cities,  burnished  on  the  solid  metal  o'  a  happy 
natur  hardened  by  the  rural  atmosphere  o'  the  pure  kintra 
air,  in  which  I  ken  you  hae  ever  delighted ;  and  by  the  ither, 
a  peculiar  sweetness,  amaist  like  that  o'  a  woman's,  yet  sae 
far  frae  bein'  feminine,  as  masculine  as  that  o'  Allen  Ramsay's 
ain  Gentle  Shepherd — and  breathin  o'  a  harmonious  union 
between  the  heart,  the  intelleck,  and  the  imagination,  a'  the 
three  keepin  their  ain  places,  and  thus  makin  the  vice,* 
speech,  gesture,  and  motion  o'  a  man  as  composed  as  a  figure 
on  a  pictur  by  some  painter  that  was  a  master  in  his  art,  and 
produced  his  effects  easily — and  ane  kens  na  hoo— by  his 
lichts  and  shadows.  Mr.  North,  amna  f  I  richt  in  the  thocht, 
if  no  in  the  expression  ? 

North.    You  have  always  known  my  sentiments,  James — 

Shepherd.  I'm  thinkin  we  had  better  lay  aside  our  swurds. 
They're  kittle  dealin  when  a  body's  stannin  or  walkin  ;  but 
the  very  deevil's  "in  them  when  ane  claps  his  doup  on  a  chair, 
for  here's  the  hilt  o'  mine  interferin  wi'  my  ladle-hand. 

Tickler.  Why,  James,  you  have  buckled  it  on  the  wrong 
side. 

Shepherd.  What  ?  Is  the  richt  the  wrang  ? 

North.  Let  us  all  untackle.  Mr.  Ambrose,  hang  up  each 
man's  sword  on  his  own  hat-peg. — There. 

North.  Hark !  my  gold  repeater  is  smiting  seven.  We 
allow  an  hour,  Mr.  De  Quincey,  to  each  course — and  then— 

[  Tlie  LEANDERS  play  "  The  Boatie  Bows" — the  doorfliet 
open, — enter  PICARDY  and  his  clan. 

t  Amnor- am  not. 


"  The  simple  Coo's  Horn." 
SECOND  COURSE— FISH. 
TICKLER. 


327 


ENGLISH  OPIUM-EATER. 

Shepherd.  I'm  sure  we  canna  be  sufficiently  gratefu'  for 
having  got  rid  o'  a'  thae  empty  tureens  o'  soup — so  let  us  noo 
set  in  for  serious  eatin,  and  tackle  to  the  inhabitants  o'  the 
Great  Deep.  What's  that  bit  body,  North,  been  about  ? 
Daidlin  *  wi'  the  mock-turtle.  I  hate  a'  things  mock — soups, 
pearls,  fause  tails,  baith  bustles  and  queues,  wigs,  cauves, 
religion,  freenship,  love,  glass-een,  rouge  on  the  face  o'  a 
woman, — no'  exceppin  even  cork  legs,  for  timmer  anes  are 
far  better,  there  bein'  nae  attempt  at  deception,  which  ought 
never  to  be  pratised  on  ony  o'  God's  reasonable  creatures— 
it's  sae  insultin. 

English  Opium-Eater.  Better  open  outrage  than  hidden 
guile,  which — 

Shepherd.  Just  sae,  sir. — But  it's  no  a  bonny  instrument, 
that  key-bugle  ?  I've  been  tryin  to  learn't  a'  this  wunter, 
beginnin  at  first  wi'  the  simple  coo's-horn.  But  afore  I  had 
weel  gotten  the  gamut,  I  had  nearly  lost  my  life. 

Tickler.  What  ?  From  mere  loss  of  breath — positive  ex 
haustion  ?  An  abscess  in  the  lungs,  James  ? 

*  Daidlin— trifling. 


328  The  Shepherd's  Adventure. 

Shepherd.  Nothing  o'  the  sort.  I  hae  wund  and  lungs  fol 
onything — even  for  roarin  you  doun  at  argument,*whan,  driven 
to  the  wa'.  you  begin  to  storm  like  a  Stentor,  till  .the  verra 
neb  o'  the  jug  on  the  dirlin  t^able  regards  you  wi'  astonish 
ment,  and  the  speeders  are  seen  rinnin  alang  the  ceilin  to 
shelter  themselves  in  their  corner  cobwebs. — (Canna  ye  learn 
frae  Mr.  De  Quinshy,  man,  to  speak  laigh  and  lown,  trustin 
mair  to  sense  and  less  to  soun',  and  you'll  find  your  advan 
tage  in't?,— But  I  allude,  sir,  to  an  Adventure. 

North.   An  adventure,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Ay — an  adventure — but  as  there's  nane  o'  you 
for  cod's-head  and  shouthers,  I'll  first  fortify  mysel  wi'  some 
forty  or  fifty  flakes — like  half-crown  pieces. 

Tickler.  Some  cod,  James,  if  you  please. 

Shepherd.  Help  yoursel — I'm  unco  thrang  *  the"  noo.  Mr. 
De  Quinshy,  what  fish  are  you  devoorin  ? 

English  Opium-Eater.   Soles. 

Shepherd.  And  you,  Mr.  North  ? 

North.  Salmon. 

Shepherd.  And  you,  Mr.  Tickler  ? 

Tickler.  Cod. 

Shepherd.  You're  a'  in  your  laconics.  I'm  fear'd  for  the 
banes,  otherwise,  after  this  cod's  dune,  1  sud  like  gran'  to  gie 
that  pike  a  yokin.  I  ken  him  for  a  Linlithgow  loon  by  the 
length  o'  his  lantern-jaws,  and  the  peacock-neck  color  o'  the 
dorsal  ridge — and  I  see  by  the  jut  o'  his  stammack  there's 
store  o'  stuffin.  There'll  be  naething  between  him  and  me, 
when  the  cod's  dune  for,  but  halibut  and  turbot — the  first  the 
wershest  and  maist  fushionless  o'  a'  swimmin  creturs — and 
the  second  ower  rich,  unless  you  intend  eatin  no  other  specie 
o'fish. 

Tickler.  Now — for  your  adventure — my  dear   Shepherd. 

*  Thrang — busy. 


With  the  Bonassus.  329 

Shepherd.  Whisht — and  you'se  hear't.  I  gaed  out  ae  day, 
ayont  the  knowe — the  same,  Mr.  North,  that  kythes*  aboon 
the  bit  field  whare  I  tried,  you  ken,  to  raise  a  counterband  crap 
o'  tobacco — and  sat  doun  on  a  brae  among  the  brackens — 
then  a'  red  as  the  heavens  in  sunset — tootin  awa  on  the  Horn, 
ettlin  first  at  B  flat,  and  then  at  A  sharp, — when  I  hears,  at 
the  close  o'  a  lesson,  what  I  thocht  the  grandest  echo  that 
ever  cam  frae  a  mountain-tap — an  echo  like  a  rair  o'  the 
ghost  of  ane  o'  the  Bulls  o'  Bashan,  gane  mad  amang  other 
horned  spectres  like  himsel  in  the  howef  o'  the  cloudy 
sky — 

English  Opium-Eater.  Mr.  North,  allow  me  to  direct  your 
attention  to  that  image,  which  seems  to  me  perfectly  original, 
and  at  the  same  time  perfectly  true  to  nature ;  original  I  am 
entitled  to  call  it,  since  I  remember  nothing  resembling  it, 
either  essentially  or  accidentally,  in  prose  or  verse,  in  the 
literature  of  Antiquity, — in  that  of  the  middle,  ordinarily,  but 
ignorantly,  called  the  Dark  Ages, — in  that  which  arose  in 
Europe  after  the  revival  of  letters — though  assuredly  letters 
had  not  sunk  into  a  state  from  which  it  could  be  said  with 
any  precision  that  they  did  revive, — or  in  that  of  our  own 
Times,  which  seems  to  me  to  want  that  totality  and  unity 
which  alone  constitute  an  Age,  otherwise  bu4  a  series  of  un 
connected  successions,  destitute  of  any  causative  principal  of 
cohesion  or  evolvement.  True  to  nature  no  less  am  I  en 
titled  to  call  the  image,  inasmuch  as  it  giveth,  not  indeed 
"  to  airy  nothing  a  local  habitation  and  a  name,"  but  to  an 
"  airy  something"  namely,  the  earthly  bellowing  of  an  animal, 
whose  bellow  is  universally  felt  to  be  terrific,  nay,  moreover, 
and  therefore  sublime, — (for  that  terror  lieth  at  the  root — if 
not  always,  yet  of  verity  in  by  for  the  greater  number  of  in 
stances — of  the  true  sublime,  from  early  boyhood  my  intellect 

*  Kythes— shows  itself.  t  Howe— hollow. 


880  TJie  Shepherd's  Adventure. 

saw,  and  my  imagination  felt  to  be  among  the  great  primdfc 
intuitive  truths  of  our  spiritual  frame), — because  it  giveth,  I 
repeat,  to  the  earthly  bellowing  of  such  an  animal  an  aerial 
character,  which,  for  the  moment,  deludes  the  mind  into  a 
belief  of  the  existence  of  a  cloudy  kine,  spectral  in  the  sky- 
region,  else  thought  to  be  the  dwelling-place  of  silence  and 
vacuity,  and  thus  an  affecting,  impressive — nay,  most  solemn 
and  almost  sacred  feeling,  is  impressed  on  the  sovereign  reason 
of  the  immortality  of  the  brute  creatures, — a  doctrine  that 
visits  us  at  those  times  only  when  our  own  being  breathes  in 
the  awe  of  divining  thought,  and  disentangling  her  wings 
from  all  clay  encumbrances,  is  strong  in  the  consciousness  of 
her  DEATHLESS  ME — so  Fichte  and  Schelling  speak — 

Shepherd.  Weel,  sir,  you  see,  doun  cam  on  my  "  DEATHLESS 
ME  "  the  Bona&sus,  head  cavin,  tail-tuft  on  high,  hinder  legs 
visible  ower  his  neck  and  shouthers,  and  his  hump  clothed  in 
thunder,  1  uder  in  his  ae  single  sel  than  a  wheeling  charge 
o'  a  haill  regiment  o'  dragoon  cavalry  on  the  Portobello  sands, 
— doun  cam  the  Bonassus,  I  say,  like  the  Horse  Life  Guards 
takin  a  park  o'  French  artillery  at  Waterloo,  richt  doun, 
Heaven  hae  mercy  !  upon  me,  his  ain  kind  maister,  wha  had 
fed  him  on  turnips,  hay  and  straw  ever  sin  Lammas,  till 
the  monster  was  as  fat's  he  could  lie  in  the  hide  o'  him — and 
naething  had  I  to  defend  mysel  wi'  but  that  silly  coo's  horn. 
A'  the  collies  were  at  hame.  Yet  in  my  fricht — deadly  as  it 
was — I  was  thankfu'  wee  Jamie  wasna  there  lookin  for  prim 
roses — for  he  micht  hae  lost  his  judgment.  You  understand, 
the  Bonassus  had  mista'en  my  B  sharp  for  anither  Bonassus 
challengin  him  to  single  combat.* 

English  Opium-Eater.  A  very  plausible  theory. 

Shepherd.  Thank  you,  sir,  for  that  commentary  on  ma  text 

•  The  naturalization  of  the  Bonassus  in  Ettrick  is  described  at  page 
180. 


With   the  Bonassus.  331 

— for  it  has  gien  me  time  to  plouter  amang  the  chouks  *  o' 
the  cod.  Faith,  it  was  nae  theory,  sir,  it  was  practice — and 
afore  I  could  fin'  my  feet,  he  was  sae  close  upon  me  that  I 
could  see  up  his  nostrils.  Just  at  that  moment  I  remembered 
that  I  had  on  an  auld  red  jacket — the  ane  that  was  ance  sky- 
blue,  you  ken,  Mr.  North,  that  I  had  gotten  dyed — and  that 
made  the  Bonassus  just  an  evendoun  Bedlamite.  For  amaist 
a'  horned  cattle  hate  and  abhor  red  coats. 

North.  So  I  have  heard  the  army  say — alike  in  town  and 
country. 

Shepherd.  What  was  to  be  done  !  I  thocht  o'  tootin  the 
horn  as  the  trumpeter  did  when  run  aff  wi'  in  the  mouth  o'  a 
teegger  ;  but  then  I  recollected  that  it  was  a'  the  horn's  blame 
that  the  Bonassus  was  there — so  I  lost  nae  time  in  that  specu 
lation,  but  slipping  aff  my  breeks,  jackets,  waistcoat,  shirt, 
and  a',  just  as  you've  seen  an  actor  on  the  stage,  I  appeared, 
suddenly  before  him  as  naked  as  the  day  I  was  born — and  sic 
is  the  awe,  sir,  wi'  which  a  human  being,  in  puris  naturalibus, 
inspires  the  maddest  of  the  brute  creation  (I  had  tried  it  ance 
before  on  a  mastiff),  that  he  was  a'  at  ance,  in  a  single  mo 
ment,  stricken  o'  a  heap,  just  the  very  same  as  if  the  butcher 
had  sank  the  head  o'  an  aix  intil  his  harn-pan — his  knees 
trummled  like  a  new-dropped  lamb's — his  tail,  tuft  and  a' 
had  nae  man*  power  in't  than  a  broken  thrissle-stalk — his  een 
goggled  instead  o'  glowered — a  heartfelt  difference,  I  assure 
you — 

English  Opium  Eater.  It  seems  to  be,  Mr.  Hogg — but  you 
will  pardon  me  if  I  am  mistaken — a  distinction  without  a 
difference,  as  the  logicians  say — 

Shepherd.  Ay,  De  Quinshy,  ma  man — logician  as  you  are, 
had  you  stood  in  my  shoon,  you  had  gotten  yoursel  on  baith 
horns  o'  the  dilemma. 

*  Choaks — jaws. 


332  The  Flight  to  Moffat. 

North.  Did  you  cut  off  his  retreat  to  the  Loch,  James,  and 
take  him  prisoner  ? 

Shepherd.  I  did.  Poor  silly  sumph  !  I  canna  help  thinkin 
that  he  swarf ed ;  though  perhaps  he  was  only  pretendin — so 
I  mounted  him,  and  putting  my  worsted  garters  through  his 
nose — it  had  been  bored  when  he  was  a  wild  beast  in  a  cara 
van — I  keepit  peggin  his  ribs  wi'  my  heels,  till,  after  gruntin 
and  grainin,*  and  raisin  his  great  big  unwieldy  red  bouk  f 
half  frae  up  the  earth,  and  then  swelterin  doun  again,  if  ance, 
at  least  a  dizzen  times,  till  I  began  absolutely  to  weary  o'  my 
situation  in  life,  he  feenally  recovered  his  cloots,$  and,  as  if 
inspired  wi'  a  new  speerit,  aif  like  lichtniri  to  the  mountains. 

North.  What ! — without  a  saddle,  James  ?  You  must  have 
felt  the  loss — I  mean  the  want,  of  leather — 

Shepherd.  We  ride  a'  mainner  o'  animals  bare-backed  in 
the  Forest,  sir.  I  hae  seen  a  bairn,  no  aboon  fowre  year  auld, 
ridin  hame  the  Bill  at  the  gloamin — a'  the  kye  at  his  tail, 
like  a  squadron  o'  cavalry  anint  Joachim  Murat,  King  o' 
Naples — Mr.  North,  gin  ye  keep  eatin  sae  vorawciously  at  the 
sawmon,  you'll  hurt  yoursel.  Fish  is  heavy.  Dinna  spare 
the  vinegar,  if  you  will  be  a  glutton. 

North.   Ma!§ 

Shepherd.  But,  as  I  was  sayin,  awa  went  the  Bonassus  due 
west.  Though  you  could  hardly  ca't  even  a  snaffle^  yet  I  soon 
found  that  I  had  a  strong  purchase,  and  bore  him  doun  frae 
the  heights  to  the  turnpike  road  that  cuts  the  kintra  frae 
Selkirk  to  Moffat.  There  does  I  encounter  three  gigfu's  o' 
gentlemen  and  leddies  ;  and  ane  o'  the  latter — a  bonny  cretur 
— leuch  as  if  she  kent  me,  as  I  gaed  by  at  full  gallop — and  I 
remembered  ha'in  seen  her  afore,  though  where  I  couldna 

*  Grainin — groaning.  t  flank — bulk.  t  Cloots— feet. 

f  "  Ma ! "  North  is  too  inteut  upon  eating  to  return  an  articulate 
an«\vo>. 


The  Flight  to  Moffat.  333 

tell :  but  a'  the  lave  shrieked  as  if  at  the  visible  superstition 
o'  the  Water- Kelpie  on  the  Water-Horse  mistakin  day  for 
nicht  in  the  delirium  o'  a  fever — and  thinkin  that  it  had  been 
the  moon  shining  down  on  his  green  pastures  aneath  the 
Loch,  when  it  was  but  the  shadow  o'  a  lurid  cloud.  But  1 
soon  vanished  into  distance. 

Tickler.  Where  the  deuce  were  your  clothes  all  this  time, 
my  dear  matter-of-fact  Shepherd  ? 

Shepherd.  Ay — there  was  the  rub.  In  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  moment  I  had  forgotten  them — nay,  such  was  the  state  of 
excitement  to  which  I  had  worked  myself  up,  that,  till  I  met 
the  three  gigfu's  o'  leddies  and  gentlemen — a  marriage  party 
— full  in  the  face,  I  was  not,  Mr.  De  Quinshy,  aware  of  being 
so  like  the  Truth.  Then  I  felt,  all  in  a  moment,  that  I  was  a 
Mazeppa.  But  had  I  turned  back,  they  would  have  supposed 
that  I  had  intended  to  accompany  them  to  Selkirk;  and 
therefore,  to  allay  all  such  fears,  I  made  a  show  o'  fleein  far 
awa  aff  into  the  interior —  into  the  cloudland  of  Loch  Skene 
and  the  Grey  Mare's  Tail. 

English  Opium-Eater.  Your  adventure,  Mr.  Hogg,  would  fur 
nish  a  much  better  subject  for  the  painter,  or  for  the  poet, 
than  the  Mazeppa  of  Byron.  For  it  is  not  possible  to  avoid 
feeling,  that  in  the  image  of  a  naked  man  on  horseback,  there 
is  an  involution  of  the  grotesque  in  the  picturesque — of  the 
truly  ludicrous  in  the  falsely  sublime.  But,  further,  the 
thought  of  bonds — whether  of  cordage  or  of  leather — on  a 
being  naturally  free  is  degrading  to  the  moral,  intellectual, 
and  physical  dignity  of  the  creature  so  constricted ;  and  it 
ought  ever  to  be  the  grand  aim  of  poetry  to  elevate  and 
exalt.  Moreover,  Mazeppa,  in  being  subjected  to  the  scornful 
gaze  of  hundreds — nay,  haply  of  thousands  of  spectators — 
the  base  retinue  of  a  barbarous  power — in  a  state  of  utter 
most  nudity,  was  subjected  to  an  ordeal  of  shame  and  rage, 


334  The  English  Opium-Eater. 

which  neither  the  contemplative  nor  imaginative  mind  could 
brook  to  see  applied  to  even  the  veriest  outcast  scum  oi  our 
race.  He  was,  in  fact,  placed  naked  in  a  moving  pillory — 
and  the  hissing  shower  of  scornful  curses  by  which  he  was  by 
those  barbarians  assailed,  is  as  insupportable  to  our  thoughts 
as  an  irregular  volley,  or  street-firing  of  rotten  eggs,  dis 
charged  by  the  hooting  rabble  against  some  miscreant  stand 
ing  with  his  face  through  a  hole  in  the  wood,  with  his  crime 
placarded  on  his  felon  breast.  True,  that  as  Mazeppa 
"  recoils  into  the  wilderness,"  the  exposure  is  less  repulsive 
to  common  imagination  ;  but  it  is  not  to  common  imagination 
that  the  highest  poetry  is  addressed ;  and,  therefore,  though 
to  the  fit  reader  there  be  indeed  some  relief  or  release  from 
shame  in  the  "  deserts  idle,"  yet  doth  not  the  feeling  of 
degradation  so  subside  as  to  be  merged  in  that  pleasurable 
state  of  the  soul  essential  to  the  effect  of  the  true  and  legiti 
mate  exercise  of  poetical  power.  Shame  pursues  him  faster 
than  the  wolves ;  nor  doth  the  umbrage  of  the  forest-trees, 
that  fly  past  him  in  his  flight,  hide  his  nakedness,  which,  in 
some  other  conditions,  being  an  attribute  of  his  nature,  might 
even  be  the  source  to  him  and  to  us  of  a  high  emotion,  but 
which  here,  being  forcibly  and  violently  imposed  against  his 
will  be  the  will  of  a  brutal  tyrant,  is  but  an  accident  of  his 
position  in  space  and  time,  and  therefore  unfit  to  be  perma 
nently  contemplated  in  a  creature  let  loose  before  the  Imagi 
native  Faculty.  Nor  is  this  vital  vice — so  let  me  call  it — in 
anywise  cured  or  alleviated  by  his  subsequent  triumph,  when 
he  returns — as  he  himself  tells  us  he  did — at  the  head  of 
"  twice  ten  thousand  horse  !  " — for  the  contrast  only  serves  to 
deepen  and  darken  the  original  nudity  of  his  intolerable  doom. 
The  mother-naked  man  still  seems  to  be  riding  in  front  of  all 
his  cavalry  ;  nor,  in  this  case,  has  the  poet's  art  sufficed  to 
reinstate  him  in  his  pristine  dignity,  and  to  efface  all  remem- 


Analyses  the  Adventure.  335 

brance  of  the  degrading  process  of  stripping  and  of  Mnding, 
to  which  of  yore  the  miserable  Nude  had  been  compelled  to 
yield,  as  helpless  as  an  angry  child  ignominiously  whipt  by  a 
nurse,  till  its  mental  sufferings  may  be  said  to  be  lost  in  its 
physical  agonies.  Think  not  that  I  wish  to  withhold  from 
Byron  the  praise  of  considerable  spirit  and  vigor  of  execu 
tion  in  his  narrative  of  the  race ;  but  that  praise  may  duly 
belong  to  very  inferior  powers,  and  I  am  now  speaking 
of  Mazeppa  in  the  light  of  a  great  Poem.  A  great  Poem  it 
assuredly  is  not ;  and  how  small  a  Poem  it  assuredly  is,  must 
be  felt  by  all  who  have  read,  and  are  worthy  to  read,  Homer's 
description  of  the  dragging,  and  driving,  and  whirling  of  the 
dead  body  of  Hector  in  bloody  nakedness  behind  the  chariot 
wheels  of  Achilles. 

Shepherd.  I  never  heard  onything  like  that  in  a'  my  days. 
Weel,  then,  sir,  there  were  nae  wolves  to  chase  me  and  the 
Bonassus,  nor  yet  mony  trees  to  overshadow  us  ;  but  we  made 
the  cattle  and  the  sheep  look  about  them,  and  mair  nor  ae 
hooded  craw  and  lang-necked  heron  gat  a  fricht,  as  we  came 
suddenly  on  him  through  the  mist,  and  gned  thundering  by 
the  cataracts.  In  an  hour  or  twa  I  began  to  get  as  firm  on 
my  seat  as  a  Centaur  ;  and  discovered  by  the  chasms  that  the 
Bonassus  was  not  only  as  fleet  as  a  racer,  but  that  he  could 
loup  like  a  hunter,  and  thocht  nae  mair  o'  a  thirty-feet  spang 
than  ye  wad  think  o'  stepping  across  the  gutter.  Ma  faith, 
we  werena  lang  o'  being  in  Moffat ! 

English  Opium-Eater.  In  your  Flight,  Mr.  Hogg,  there 
were  visibly  and  audibly  concentrated  all  the  attributes  of  the 
highest  Poetry.  First,  freedom  of  the  will ;  for  self-impelled 
you  ascended  the  animal.  Secondly,  the  impulse,  though 
immediately  consequent  upon,  and  proceeding  from,  one  of 
fear,  was  yet  an  impulse  of  courage  ;  and  courage  is  not  only  a 
virtue,  and  acknowledged  to  be  such  in  all  Christain  countries, 


336  The  Analysis  is  continued. 

but  among  the  Romans — who  assuredly,  however  low  they 
must  be  ranked  on  the  intellectual  scale,  were  nevertheless 
morally  a  brave  people — to  it  alone  was  given  the  name  virtus. 
Thirdly,  though  you  were  during  your  whole  flight  so  far 
passive  that  you  yielded  to  the  volition  of  the  creature 
yet  were  you  likewise,  during  your  whole  course,  so  far 
active,  that  you  guided,  as  it  appears,  the  motions  which  it 
was  beyond  your  power  entirely  to  control ;  thus  vindicating 
'in  your  own  person  the  rights  of  the  superior  order  of  crea 
tion.  Fourthly,  you  were  not  so  subjugated  by  the  passion 
peculiar  and  appropriate  to  your  situation,  as  to  be  insensible 
to  or  regardless  of  the  courtesies,  the  amenities,  and  the 
humanities  of  civilised  life — as  witness  that  glance  of  mutual 
recognition  that  passed  in  one  moment,  between  you  and  the 
"bonny  creature"  in  the  gig;  nor  yet  to  be  inattentive  to 
the  effect  produced  by  yourself  and'  the  Bonassus  on  various 
tribes  of  the  inferior  creatures, — cattle,  sheep,  crows,  and 
herons,  to  say  nothing  of  the  poetical  delight  experienced  by 
you  from  the  influence  of  the  beautiful  or  august  shows  of 
nature, — mists,  clouds,  cataracts,  and  the  eternal  mountains. 
Fifthly,  the  constantly  accompanying  sense  of  danger  inter 
fused  with  that  of  safety,  so  as  to  constitute  one  complex 
emotion,  under  which,  hurried  as  you  were,  it  may  be  said 
with  perfect  truth  that  you  found  leisure  to  admire,  nay,  even 
to  wonder  at,  the  strange  speed  of  that  most  extraordinary 
animal — and  most  extraordinary  he  must  be,  if  the  only 
living  representative  of  his  species  since  the  days  of  Aristotle 
— nor  less  to  admire  and  wonder  at  your  own  skill,  equally, 
if  not  more,  miraculous,  and  well  entitled  to  throw  into  the 
shade  of  oblivion  the  art  of  the  most  illustrious  equestrian 
that  ever  "  witched  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship." 
Sixthly,  the  sublime  feeling  of  penetrating,  like  a  thunderbolt, 
cloud-land  and  all  the  mist  cities  that  evanished  as  you 


The  Peroration.  337 

galloped  into  their  suburbs,  gradually  giving  way  to  a  feeling 
no  less  sublime,  of  having  left  behind  all  those  unsubstantial 
phantom-regions,  and  of  nearing  the  habitation  or  tabernacle 
of  men,  known  by  the  name  of  Moffat — perhaps  one  of  the 
most  imaginative  of  all  the  successive  series  of  states  of 
your  soul  since  first  you  appeared  among  the  hills,  like  Sol 
entering  Taurus.  And,  finally,  the  deep  trance  of  home-felt 
delight  that  must  have  fallen  upon  your  spirit — true  still  to 
all  the  sweetest  and  most  sacred  of  all  the  social  affections — 
when,  the  Grey  Mare's  Tail  left  streaming  far  behind  that  of 
the  Bonassus,  you  knew  from  the  murmur  of  that  silver 
stream  that  your  flight  was  about  to  cease — till,  lo  !  the  pretty 
village  of  which  you  spoke,  embosomed  in  hills  and  trees — 
the  sign  of  the  White  Lion,  perad venture,  motionless  in  the 
airless  calm — a  snug  parlor  with  a  blazing  ingle — re-ap 
parelling  instant,  almost  as  thought — food  both  for  man  and 
beast — for  the  Ettrick  Shepherd — pardon  my  familiarity  for 
sake  of  friendship — and  his  Bonassus.  Yea,  from  goal  to 
goal,  the  entire  Flight  is  Poetry,  and  the  original  idea  of 
nakedness  is  lost — or  say  rather  veiled — in  the  halo-light  of 
imagination. 

Shepherd.  Weel,  if  it's  no  provokin,  Mr.  De  Quinshy,  to 
hear  you,  who  never  was  on  a  Bonassus  a'  your  days,  ana- 
leezin,  wi'  the  maist  comprehensive  and  acute  philosophical 
accuracy,  ma  complex  emotion  during  the  Flight  to  Moffat 
far  better  than  I  could  do  mysel — 

North.  Your  genius,  James,  is  synthetical. 

Shepherd.  Synthetical  ?  I  howp  no — at  least  nae  mair  sae 
than  the  genius  o'  Burns  or  Allan  Kinninghame — or  the  lave 
—for— 

English  Opium-Eater.  What  is  the  precise  Era  of  the  Flight 
to  Moffat  ? 

Shepherd.    Mr.  De   Quinshy,  you're  like   a'  ither  great 


338  The  Bonassus  is  dismissed. 

philosophers,  ane  o'  the  maist  credulous  o'  mankind  !  You 
wad  believe  me  were  I  to  say  that  I  had  ridden  a  whale 
up  the  Yarrow  frae  Newark  to  Eltrive !  the  haill  story's  a 
lee !  and  sa  free  o'  ony  foundation  in  truth,  that  I  wad  hae 
nae  objections  to  tak  my  Bible-oath  that  sic  a  beast  as  a 
Bonassus  never  was  creawted — arid  it's  lucky  for  him  that 
he  never  was,  for,  seeing  that  he's  said  to  consume  three 
bushel  o'  ingans  to  denner  every  day  o'  his  life,  Noah  wad 
never  hae  letten  him  intil  the  Ark,  and  he  wad  hae  been 
fund,  after  the  subsidin  o'  the  waters,  a  skeleton  on  the  tap 
o'  Mount  Ararat. 

English  Opium- Eater.  His  non-existence  in  nature  is  alto 
gether  distinct  from  his  existence  in  the  imagination  of  the 
poet — and,  in  good  truth,  redounds  to  his  honor — for  his 
character  must  be  viewed  in  the  light  of  a  pure  Ens  rationis 
—or  say  rather — 

Shepherd.  Just  let  him  be  an  Ens  rationis.  But  confess  at 
the  same  time,  that  you  was  bammed,  sir. 

English  Opium-Eater.  I  recognize  the  legitimate  colloquial 
use  of  the  word  Bam,  Mr.  Hogg,  denoting,  I  believe,  "  the 
willing  surrendering  of  belief,  one  of  the  first  principles  of 
our  mental  constitution,  to  any  statement  made  with 
apparent  sincerity,  but  real  deceit,  by  a  mind  not  pre 
viously  suspected  to  exist  in  a  perpetual  atmosphere  of 
falsehood." 

Shepherd.  Just  sae,  sir, — that's  a  Bam.  In  Glasgow  they 
ca't  a  ggeg. — But  what's  the  matter  wi'  Mr.  North  ?  Saw  ye 
ever  the  cretur  lookin  sae  gash  ?  *  I  wish  he  mayna  be  in  a 
fit  o'  apoplexy.  Speak  till  him,  Mr.  De  Quinshy. 

English  Opium-Eater.  His  countenance  is,  indeed,  omin 
ously  sable, — but  'tis  most  unlikely  that  apoplexy  should 
strike  a  person  of  his  spare  habit.  Nay, 

*  Gash — sagacious  :  here,  in  the  sense  of  ''  solemn." 


A  Fit  of  Apoplexy.  339 

rected ;  for  I  believe  that  attacks  of  this  kind  have, 
within  the  last  quarter  of  a  century,  become  comparatively 
frequent,  and  constitute  one  of  the  not  least  perplexing 
phenomena  submitted  to  the  inquisition  of  Modern  Medical 
Science. — Mr.  North,  will  you  relieve  our  anxiety  ? 

Shepherd  (starting  up,  and  flying  to  Mr.  North).  His  face 
a'  purple.  Confoun'  that  cravat ! — for  the  mair  you  pu'  at 
it,  the  tichter  it  grows. 

English  Opium-Eater.  Mr.  Hogg,  I  would  seriously  and 
earnestly  recommend  more  delicacy  and  gentleness. 

Shepherd.    Tuts.     It's  fastened  I  declare,  ahint  wi'  a  gold 
buckle,  and  afore  wi'    a  gold  preen, — a  brotch    frae    Mrs. 
Gentle,  in  the  shape  o'  a  bleedin  heart!     'Twill  be  the  death 
o'  him. — Oh  !  puir  fallow,  puir  fallow  ! — rax*  me  ower  that 
knife.     What's  this  ?     You've  given  me  the  silver  fish-knife, 
Mr.  De  Quinshy.     Na, — that's  far  waur,  Mr.  Tickler. — That 
swurd  for  carvin  the  round.     But  here's  my  ain  jockteleg.f 
SHEPHERD  unclasps  his  pocket-knife, — and  while  brandish 
ing  in  great  trepidation,  Mr.  NORTH  opens  his  eyes. 

North.  Emond  !  Emond  !  Eraond  !— Thurtell— Thurtell— 
Thurtell  !J 

Shepherd.  A  drap  o'  bluid's  on  his  brain, — and  Reason 
becomes  Raving  !  What's  man  ? 

Tickler.  Cut  away,  James.  Not  a  moment  to  be  lost.  Be 
firm  and  decided,  else  he  is  a  dead  heathen. 

Shepherd  Wae's  me — wae's  me  !  Nae  goshawk  ever  sae 
glowered, — and  only  look  at  his  puir  fingers  hoo  they  are 
workin  !  I  canria  thole  the  sicht, — I'm  as  weak's  a  wean, 
and  fear  that  I'm  gaun  to  fent.  Tak  the  knife,  Tickler. 
Oh,  look  at  his  hauns — look  at  his  hauns ! 

*  Rax — rea<ih.  t  Jockteleg — a  folding-knile. 

%  Robert  Emond  was  tried  in  Edinburgh  on  the  8th  of  February,  and 
executed  on  the  17th  of  March  1830,  for  the  murder  of  Katherine  Franks 
and  her  daughter  Madeline,  in  their  house  at  Abbey,  near  Haddington. 


340  The  Pike's  Back-lone 

Tickler  (bending  over  Mr.  North).  Yes,  yes,  my  dear  sir — I 
comprehend  you — I — 

Shepherd  (in  anger  and  astonishment).  Mr.  Tickler,  are  you 
mad  ? — fingerin  your  fingers  in  that  gate, — as  if  you  were 
mockin  him  ! 

English  Opium-Eater.  They  are  conversing,  Mr.  Hogg,  in 
that  language  which  originated  in  Oriental — 

Shepherd.  Oh  !  they're  speakin  on  their  fingers  ? — Then 
a's  richt, — and  Mr.  North's  comin  roun'  again  intil  his  seven 
senses.  It's  been  but  a  dwawm  ! 

Tickler.  Mr.  North  has  just  contrived  to  communicate  to 
me,  gentlemen,  the  somewhat  alarming  intelligence  that  the 
back-bone  of  the  pike  has  for  some  time  past  been  sticking 
about  half-way  down  his  throat ;  that,  being  unwilling  to 
interrupt  the  conviviality  of  the  company,  he  endeavored 
at  first  to  conceal  the  circumstance,  and  then  made  the  most 
strenuous  efforts  to  dislodge  it,  upwards  or  downwards,  with 
out  avail ;  but  that  you  must  not  allow  yourselves  to  fall 
into  any  extravagant  consternation,  as  he  indulges  the  fond 
hope  that  it  may  be  extracted,  even  without  professional 
assistance,  by  Mr.  De  Quinshy,  who  has  an  exceedingly  neat 
small  Byronish  hand,  and  on  whose  decision  of  character  he 
places  the  most  unfaltering  reliance. 

Shepherd  (in  a  huff).  Does  he ! — Very  weel — sin  he  for- 
gets  auld  freens — let  him  do  sae — 

North.  Ohrr  Hogrwhu  —  chru  —  u  -=—  u  —  u  —  Hogru- 
whuu — 

Shepherd.  Na !  I  canna  resist  sic  pleadin  eloquence  as 
that — here's  the  screw,  let  me  try  it. — Or  what  think  ye, 
Mr.  Tickler, — what  think  ye,  Mr.  De  Quinshy, — o'  thir  pair 
o'  boot-hooks  ?-^Gin  I  could  get  a  cleek  o'  the  bane  by  ane 
o'  the  vertebrae,  I  might  hoise  it  gently  up,  by  slaw  degrees, 
sae  that  ane  could  get  at  it  wi'  their  fingers,  and  then  pu'  it 


In  Mr.  North's  Throat.  341 

out  o'  his  mouth  in  a  twinklin  !      But  first  let  me  look  doun 

his  throat. — Open  your  mouth,  my  dearest  sir. 

[MR.  NORTH  leans  back  his  head,  and  opens  his  mouth. 
Shepherd.  I  see't  like  a  harrow.     Rin  ben  baith  o'  ye,  for 

Mr.  Awmrose.  [TICKLER  tmrfMr.  DE  QUINCEY  obey. 

Weel  ackit,  sir — weel  ackit — I  was   taen  in  mysel    at  first, 

for  your  cheeks  were  like  coals.  Here's  the  back-bane  o'  the 

pike  on  the  trencher — I'll  — 

(Re-enter  TICKLER  and  OPIUM-EATER,  with  Mr.  AMBROSE, 
pale  as  death.) 

It's  all  over,  gentlemen. — It's  all  over ! 
Ambrose.  Oh !  oh  !  oh  ! 

[Faints  away  into  TICKLER'S  arms. 
Shepherd.  What  the  deevil's  the  matter  wi'  you,  you  set  o' 

f ules  ? — I've  gotten  out  the  bane. — Look  here  at  the  skeleton 

o'  the  shark ! 

English  Opium-Eater.  Monstrous! 

North  (running  to  the  assistance  of  Mr.  AMBROSE).  We 

have  sported  too  far,  I  fear,  with  his  sensibilities. 

English    Opium-Eater.  A  similar  case  of  a  fish-bone   in 

Germany — 

Shepherd.  Mr.  De  Quinshy,  can  you  really  swallow  that  ? 
[Looking  at  the  pike-back,  about  two  feet  long. 

But  the  hour  has  nearly  expired. 

[The  LEANDERS  play"  Hey,  Johnnie  Cope,  are  you  wauken 
yet  ?  " — Mr.  AMBROSE  starts  to  his  feet,  runs  off  and  re 
appears  almost  instanter  at  the  head  of  the  forces. 


342  "  Hunger  s  naething  till  Thrust' 


THIRD  COURSE-FLESH. 
TICKLER. 


w  /  i  *-".\! 

o      Beef-Steak  Pie.       Haunch  of  Venison.       Rump.     ^ 

I\     i  I    /I 


Fillet  of  Veal. 


ENGLISH  OPIUM-EATER. 

Shepherd  (in  continuation).  And  do  you  really  think,  Mr. 
North,  that  the  kintra's  in  great  and  general  distress,  and  a' 
orders  in  a  state  o'  absolute  starvation  ? 

North.  Yes — James — although  the  Duke  *  cannot  see  the 
sufferings  of  his  subjects,  I  can — and — 

Shepherd.  Certain  appearances  do  indicate  national  dis 
tress  ;  yet  I  think  I  could,  withouten  meikle  difficulty,  lay 
my  haun  the  noo  on  ithers  that  seem  to  lead  to  a  different 
conclusion. 

North.  No  sophistry,  James. 

Shepherd.  Hunger's  naething  till  Thrust.  Ance  in  the 
middle  o'  the  muir  o'  Rannoch  I  had  neer  dee'd  o'  thrust. 
1  was  crossing  frae  Loch  Ericht  fit  f  to  the  heid  o'Glenorchy, 
and  got  in  aniang  the  hags,  $  that  for  leagues  and  leagues  a' 
round  that  dismal  region  seem  howked  out  o'  the  black  moss 
by  demons  doomed  to  dreary  days-dargs  §  for  their  sins  in 
the  wilderness.  There  was  naething  for't  but  loup — loup — 
loupin  out  o'  ae  pit  intil  anither — hour  after  hour — till,  sau 

*  The  Duke  of  Wellington.     He  was  at  this  time  Prime  Minister. 

t  Fit — foot.  t  Hags — pits  whence  peat  has  been  dug. 

§  Days-darqs— day's  labors. 


Lost  in  RannocTi.  343 

forfeuchen,*  I  feenally  gied  mysel  up  for  lost.  Drought  had 
sooked  up  the  pools,  and  left  their  cracked  bottoms  barkened  f 
in  the  heat.  The  heather  was  sliddery  as  ice,  aneath  that 
torrid  zone.  Sic  a  sun  !  No  ae  clud  on  a'  the  sky  glitterin 
wi'  wirewoven  sultriness !  The  howe  o'  the  lift  $  was  like  a 
great  cawdron  pabblin  into  the  boil  ower  a  slow  fire.  The 
element  of  water  seemed  dried  up  out  o'  natur,  a'  except  the 
big  drops  o'  sweat  that  plashed  doun  on  my  fevered  hauns, 
that  began  to  trummle  like  leaves  o'  aspen.  My  mouth  was 
made  o'  cork  covered  wi'  dust — lips,  tongue,  palate,  and  a', 
doun  till  my  throat  and  stammack.  I  spak — and  the  arid 
soun'  was  as  if  a  buried  corpse  had  tried  to  mutter  through 
the  smotherin  mools.  I  thocht  on  the  tongue  of  a  parrot. 
The  central  lands  o'  Africa,  whare  lions  gang  ragin  mad  for 
water,  when  cheated  out  o'  blood,  canna  be  worse — dreamed 
I  in  a  species  o'  delirium — than  this  dungeon'd  desert.  Uh ! 
but  a  drap  o'  dew  would  hae  seem'd  then  pregnant  wi'  salva 
tion  ! — a  shower  out  o'  the  windows  o'  heaven,  like  the  direct 
gift  o'  God,  Rain  !  Rain  !  Rain  ! — what  a  world  o'  life  in 
that  sma'  word  !  But  the  atmosphere  look'd  as  if  it  would 
never  melt  mair,  intrenched  against  a'  liquidity  by  brazen 
barriers  burnin  in  the  sun.  Spittle  I  had  nane — and  when  in 
desperation  I  sooked  the  heather,  'twas  frush  and  fushionless, 
as  if  withered  by  lichtnin,  and  a'  sap  had  left  the  vegetable 
creation.  What'n  a  cursed  fule  was  I — for  in  rage  I  fear  I 
swore  inwardly  (Heev'n  forgie  me) — that  I  didna  at  the  last 
change-house  put  into  my  pouch  a  bottle  o'  whisky  !  I  fan' 
my  pulse — and  it  was  thin — thin — thin — sma' — sma' — sma' 
— noo  nane  ava — and  then  a  flutter  that  telt  tales  o'  the 
exhausted  heart.  I  grat.§  Then  shame  came  to  my  relief — 
shame  even  in  that  utter  solitude.  Somewhere  or  ither  in 


*  Forfeuchen — fatigued.  t  Barkened — hardened, 

t  Howe  o'  the  lift— hollow  of  the  sky.  §  Grat— wept. 


344  The  Delirium  of  Thirst. 

the  muir  I  knew  there  was  a  loch,  and  I  took  out  my  map 
But  the  infernal  idiwut  that  had  planned  it  hadna  allooed  a 
yellow  circle  o'  aboon  six  inches  square  for  a'  Perthshire. 
What's  become  o'  a'  the  birds — thocht  I — and  the  bees — and 
the  butterflees — and  the  dragons  ? — A'  wattin  their  bills  and 
their  proboscisces  in  far-off  rills,  and  rivers,  and  lochs  !  O 
blessed  wild-dyucks,  plouterin  in  the  water,  streekin  theirsels 
up,  and  flappin  their  flashin  plumage  in  the  pearly  freshness  ! 
A  great  big  speeder,  wi'  a  bag-belly,  was  rinnin  up  my  leg, 
and  I  crushed  it  in  my  fierceness — the  first  inseck  I  ever 
wantonly  murdered  sin'  I  was  a  wean.  I  kenna  whether  at 
last  I  swarfed  or  slept — but  for  certain  sure  I  had  a  dream. 
I  dreamt  that  I  was  at  hame — and  that  a  tub  o'  whey  was 
staunin  on  the  kitchen  dresser.  I  dook'd  my  head  intil't, 
and  sooked  it  dry  to  the  wood.  Yet  it  slokeried  *  not  my 
thrust,  but  aggravated  a  thousand-fauld  the  torment  o'  my 
greed.  A  thunder-plump  or  waterspout  brak  amang  the  hills 
— and  in  an  instant  a'  the  burns  were  on  spate  ;  the  Yarrow 
roarin  red,  and  foaming  as  it  were  mad, — and  I  thocht  I 
could  hae  drucken  up  a'  its  linns.  'Twas  a  brain  fever,  ye 
see,  sirs,  that  had  stricken  me — a  sair  stroke — and  I  was  con 
scious  a^ain  o'  lying  broad  awake  in  the  desert,  wi'  my  face  up 
to  the  cruel  sky.  I  was  the  verra  personification  o'  Thrust ! 
— and  felt  that  I  was  ane  o'  the  Damned  Dry,  doom'd  for  his 
sins  to  leeve  beyond  the  reign  o'  the  element  to  a'  Eternity. 
Suddenly,  like  a  man  shot  in  battle,  I  bounded  up  into  the 
air — and  ran  off  in  the  convulsive  energy  o'  dying  natur — till 
doun  T  fell — and  felt  that  I  was  about  indeed  to  expire.  A 
sweet,  saft,  celestial  greenness  cooled  my  cheek  as  I  lay,  and 
my  burnin  een — and  then  a  gleam  o'  something  like  a  mighty 
diamond — a  gleam  that  seemed  to  comprehend  within  itsel 
the  haill  universe — shone  in  upon  and  through  my  being — I 

*  Slokened — quenched. 


A  fiobiris   Nest.  345 

gazed  upon't  wi'  a'  mj  senses.  Mercifu'  Heaven !  what 
was't  but — a  WELL  in  the  wilderness  ! — water — water — • 
water, — and  as  I  drank — I  prayed  ! 

Omnes.  Bravo  —  bravo  —  bravo  !  Hurra  — hurra  — 
hurra  ! 

Shepherd.  Analeeze  that,  Mr.  De  Quinshy. 

English  Opium-Eater.  Inspiration  admits  not  of  analysis — 
in  itself  an  evolvement  of  an  infinite  series — 

Shepherd.  Isna  the  Dolphin  rather  ower  sweet,  sirs  ?  We 
maun  mak  haste  and  drain  him — and  neist  brewst,  Mrs. 
Awmrose  maun  be  less  lavish  o'  her  sugar — for  her  finest 
crystals  are  the  verra  concentrated  essence  o'  saccharine 
sweetness,  twa  lumps  to  the  mutchkin. 

English  Opium-Eater.  Mr.  Hogg,  that  wallflower  in  your 
button-hole  is  intensely  beautiful,  and  its  faint  wild  scent 
mingles  delightfully  with  the  fragrance  of  the  coffee — 

Shepherd.  And  o'  the  toddy — ae  blended  bawm.  I  pu'd  it 
aff  ane  o'  the  auld  towers  o'  Newark,  this  morning,  frae  a 
constellation  o'  starry  blossoms,  that  a'  nicht  lang  had  been 
drinkin  the  dews,  arid  at  the  dawin  could  hardly  haud  up 
their  heads,  sae  laden  was  the  haill  bricht  bunch  wi'  the 
pearlins  o'  heaven.  And  would  ye  believe't,  a  bit  robin- 
redbreast  had  bigged  its  nest  in  a  cozy  cranny  o'  the  moss 
wa',  ahint  the  wallflower,  a  perfect  paradise  to  brood  and 
breed  in, — out  flew  the  dear  wee  beastie  wi'  a  flutter  in  my 
face,  and  every  mouth  opened  as  I  keeked  in — and  then  a' 
was  hushed  again — just  like  my  ain  bairnies  in  ae  bed  at 
hame — no  up  yet — for  the  hours  were  slawly  iiitrudin  on  the 
"  innocent  brichtness  o'  the  new-born  day  ;"  and  it  was, 
guessing  by  the  shadowless  light  on  the  tower  and  trees, 
only  about  four  o'clock  in  the  mornin. 

Tickler.  I  was  just  then  going  to  bed. 

Shepherd.  Teetus  Vespawsian  used  to  say  sometimes  :  "  I 


346  "  Ggemm  and  Fools  !  " 

have  lost  a  day" — but  the  sluggard  loses  a'  his  life,  and   lets 
it  slip  through  his  hauns  like  a  knotless  thread. 

English  Opium-Eater.  I  am  no  sluggard,  Mr.  Hogg — yet  I — 

Shepherd.  Change  nicht  into  day,  and  day  into  nicht, 
rinnin  coonter  to  natur,  insultin  the  sun,  and  quarrellin  wi' 
the  equawtor.  That's  no  richt.  Nae  man  kens  what  Beau 
ty  is  that  hasna  seen  her  a  thousan'  and  a  thousan'  times  lyin 
on  the  lap  o'  nature,  asleep  in  the  dawn — on  an  earthly  bed 
a  spirit  maist  divine.  .  .  .  Whisht,  I  heard  a  fisslin  in  the 
gallery  ! 

North.  Leander ! 

(The  horns  sound,  and  enter  ol  -nspt  AMBROSE.) 

Shepherd  ( in  continuation).  Ggemm !  and  Fools  ! 

FOURTH  COURSE— FOWL. 
TICKLER. 


ENGLISH  OPIUM-EATER. 


North,  (in  continuation}.  The  Greek  Tragedy,  James,was 
austere  in  its  principles  as  the  Greek  Sculpture.  Its  sub 
jects  were  all  of  ancestral  and  religious  consecration;  its 
style,  high,  and  heroic,  and  divine,  admitted  no  inter 
mixture  even  of  mirth,  or  seldom  and  reluctantly,  —  much  less 


Sophocles  and  Shakespeare.  347 

of  grotesque  and  fantastic  extravagances  of  humor, — 
which  would  have  marred  the  consummate  dignity,  beauty, 
and  magnificence  of  all  the  scenes  that  swept  along  that 
enchanted  floor.  Such  was  the  spirit  that  shone  on  the 
soft  and  the  stately  Sophocles.  But  Shakespeare  came 
from  heaven — and  along  with  him  a  Tragedy  that  poured 
into  one  cup  the  tears  of  mirth  and  madness ;  showed 
Kings  one  day  crowned  with  jewelled  diadems,  and  another 
day  with  wild  wisps  of  straw  ;  taught  the  Prince  who,  in 
single  combat — 

"  Had  quench'd  the  flame  of  hot  rebellion 
Even  in  the  rebels'  blood," 

to  moralize  on  the  field  of  battle  over  the  carcase  of  a  fat 
buffoon  wittily  simulating  death  among  the  bloody  corpses  of 
English  nobles  ;  nay,  showed  the  son — and  that  son,  prince, 
philosopher,  paragon  of  men — jocularly  conjuring  to  rest  his 
Father's  Ghost,  who  had  revisited  earth  "  by  the  glimpses  of 
the  moon,  making  night  hideous." 

Shepherd.  Stop — stop,  sir.  That's  aneuch  to  prove  your 
pint.  .  .  .  And  sae  your  auld  freen's  dead. — What  kirkyard 
was  he  buried  in  ? 

North.  Greyfriars. 

Shepherd.  An  impressive  place.  Huge,  auld,  red,  gloomy 
church — a  countless  multitude  'o  grass  graves  a'  touchin  ane 
anither — a'  roun  the  kirkyard  wa's  marble  and  freestane 
monuments  without  end,  o'  a'  shapes,  and  sizes,  and  ages — 
some  quaint,  some  queer,  some  simple,  some  ornate  ;  for 
genius  likes  to  work  upon  grief — and  these  tombs  are  like 
towers  and  temples,  partakin  not  o'  the  noise  o'  the  city,  but 
staunin  aloof  frae  the  stir  o'  life,  aneath  the  sombre  shadow 
o'  the  Castle  cliff,  that  heaves  its  battlements  far  up  into  the 
gky.  A  sublime  cemetery — yet  I  sudna  like  to  be  interred 
in't — it  looks  sae  dank,  clammy,  cauld — 


By  the  Sea-shore. 

Tickler.  And  uncomfortable.  A  corpse  would  be  apt  to 
catch  its  death  of  cold. 

Shepherd.  Whisht. — Where  did  he  leeve  ? 

North.  On  the  sea-shore. 

Shepherd.  I  couldna  thole  to  leeve  on  the  sea-shore. 

Tickler.  And  pray  why  not,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  That  everlastin  thunner  sae  disturbs  my  imagi 
nation,  that  my  soul  has  nae  rest  in  its  ain  solitude,  but 
becomes  transfused  as  it  were  into  the  michty  ocean,  a'  its 
thochts  as  wild  as  the  waves  that  keep  foamin  awa  into 
naething,  and  then  breakin  back  again  into  transitory  life — • 
for  ever  and  ever  and  ever — as  if  neither  in  sunshine  nor 
moonlight,  that  multitudinous  tumultuousness,  frae  the  first 
creation  o'  the  world,  had  ever  ance  been  stilled  in  the 
blessedness  o'  perfect  sleep. 

English  Opium-Eater.  In  the  turmoil  of  this  our  mortal  lot, 
the  soul's  deepest  bliss  assuredly  is,  0  Shepherd !  a  tideless 
calm. 

Shepherd.  The  verra  thocht,  sir — the  verra  feelin — the 
verra  word. 

North.  What  pleasanter  spot,  James,  than  a  country  kirk- 
yard? 

Shepherd.  I  steek  my  een — and  I  see  ane  the  noo — in  a 
green  laigh  lown  spot  amang  the  sheep-nibbled  braes.  A 
Funeral !  See  that  row  of  schoolboy  laddies  and  lassies  drawn 
up  sae  orderly  o'  their  ain  still  accord,  half  curious  and  half 
wae,*  some  o'  the  lassies  wi'  lapfu's  o'  primroses,  and  gazin 
wi'  hushed  faces  as  the  wee  coffin  enters  in  on  men's 
shouthers  that  never  feel  its  wecht,  wi'  its  doun-hangin  and 
gracefu'  velvet  pall,  though  she  that  is  hidden  therein  was 
the  poorest  o'  the  poor  !  Twa-three  days  ago  the  body  in 
that  coffin  was  dancin  like  a  sunbeam  ower  the  verra  sods 
that  are  noo  about  to  be  shovelled  over  it !  The  flowers  she 

*  Woe— sorrowful. 


A  Funeral  in  the  Grlen.  349 

had  been  gatherin — sweet,  innocent,  thochtless  cretur — then 
moved  up  and  doun  on  her  bosom  when  she  breathed — for 
she  and  nature  were  blest  and  beautifu'  in  their  spring.  An 
auld  white-headed  man,  bent  sairly  doun,  at  the  head  o'  the 
grave,  lettin  the  white  cord  slip  wi'  a  lingerin,  reluctant 
tenderness  through  his  withered  hauns !  It  has  reached  the 
bottom.  Wasna  that  a  dreadfu'  groan,  driven  out  o'  his 
heart,  as  if  a  strong-haun'd  man  had  smote  it  by  the  first  fa' 
o'  the  clayey  thunder  on  the  fast-disappearing  blackness  o' 
the  velvet — soon  hidden  in  the  bony  mould  ?  He's  but  her 
grandfather — for  she  was  an  orphan.  But  her  grandfather ! 
Wae's  me  !  wha  is't  that  writes  in  some  silly  blin'  book  that 
auld  age  is  insensible — safe  and  secure  frae  sorrow — and  that 
dim  eyes  are  unapproachable  to  tears  ? 

Tickler.  Not  till  dotage  drivels  away  into  death.  With 
hoariest  eld  often  is  parental  love  a  passion  deeper  than  ever 
bowed  the  soul  of  bright-haired  youth,  watching  by  the  first 
dawn  of  daylight  the  face  of  the  sleeping  bride. 

Shepherd.  What  gars  us  a'  fowre  talk  on  such  topics  the 
nicht  ?  Friendship !  That,  when  sincere — as  ours  is  sincere 
— will  sometimes  saften  wi'  a  strange  sympathy  merriest 
hearts  into  ae  mood  o'  melancholy,  and  pitch  a'  their  voices 
on  ae  key,  and  gie  a'  their  faces  ae  expression,  and  mak  them 
a'  feel  mair  profoundly,  because  they  a'  feel  thegither,  the 
sadness  and  the  sanctity — different  words  for  the  same  mean 
ing — o'  this  our  mortal  life  ; — I  howp  there's  naething  the 
maitter  wi'  wee  Jamie. 

North.  That  there  is  not,  indeed,  my  dearest  Shepherd. 
At  this  very  moment  he  is  singing  his  little  sister  asleep. 

Shepherd.  God  bless  you,  sir  ;  the  tone  o'  your  voice  is  like 
a  silver  trumpet. — Mr.  De  Quinshy,  hae  you  ever  soum'd  up 
(lie  number  o'  your  weans?* 

*  Weans— children. 


350  The  English  Opium-Eater. 

English  Opium-Eater.  Seven. 

Shepherd.  Stop  there,  sir,  it's  a  mystical  number, — and  may 
they  aye  be  like  sae  mony  planets  in  bliss  and  beauty  circlin 
roun  the  sun, 

English  Opium-Eater.  It  seemeth  strange  the  time  when  as 
yet  those  Seven  Spirits  were  not  in  the  body — and  the  air 
which  I  breathed  partook  not  of  that  blessedness  which  now 
to  me  is  my  life.  Another  sun — another  moon — other  stars 
— since  the  fa  e  of  my  first-born.  Another  earth — another 
heaven  !  I  loved,  methought — before  that  face  smiled — the 
lights  and  the  shadows,  the  flowers  and  the  dews,  the  rivulets 
that  sing  to  Pilgrims  in  the  wild, — the  mountain  wells,  where 
all  alone  the  "  book-bosomed  "  Pilgrim  sitteth  down — and  lo  ! 
far  below  the  many-rivered  vales  sweeping  each  to  its  own 
lake — how  dearly  did  I  love  ye  all !  Yet  was  that  love 
fantastical — and  verily  not  of  the  deeper  soul.  Imagination 
over  this  "  visible  diurnal  sphere "  spread  out  her  own 
spiritual  qualities,  arid  made  the  beauty  that  beamed  back 
upon  her  dreams.  Nor  wanted  tenderest  touches  of  humanity 
— as  my  heart  remembered  some  living  flower  by  the  door  of 
far-up  cottage,  where  the  river  is  but  a  rill.  But  in  my  inner 
spirit  there  was  then  a  dearth,  which  Providence  hath  since 
amply,  and  richly,  and  prodigally  furnished  with  celestial 
food — which  is  also  music  to  the  ears,  and  light  to  the  eyes, 
and  the  essence  of  silken  softness  to  the  touch — a  family  of 
immortal  spirits,  who  but  for  me  never  had  been  brought  into 
the  mystery  of  accountable  and  responsible  being !  Of  old 
I  used  to  study  the  Spring — but  now  its  sweet  sadness 
steals  unawares  into  my  heart — when  among  the  joyous 
lambs  I  see  my  own  children  at  play.  The  shallow  nest  of 
the  cushat  seems  now  to  me  a  more  sacred  thing  in  the 
obscurity  of  the  pine-tree.  The  instincts  of  all  the  inferior 
creatures  are  now  holy  in  my  eyes — for,  like  Reason's  self, 


On  Parental  Love.  351 

they  have  their  origin  in  love.  Affection  for  my  own  children 
has  enabled  me  to  sound  the  depths  of  gratitude.  Gazing  on 
them  at  their  prayers,  in  their  sleep,  I  have  had  revelations 
of  the  nature  of  peace,  and  trouble,  and  innocence,  and  sin, 
and  sorrow,  which,  till  they  had  smiled  and  wept,  offended 
and  been  reconciled,  I  knew  not — how  could  I  ? — to  be  within 
the  range  of  the  far-flying  and  far-fetching  spirit  of  love, 
which  is  the  life-of-life  of  all  things  beneath  the  sun,  moon 
and  stars. 

Shepherd.  Do  ye  ken,  sir,  that  I  love  to  hear  ye  speak  far 
best  ava  when  you  lay  aside  your  logic  ?  Grammar's  aften  a 
grievous  and  gallin  burden  ;  but  logic's  a  cruel  constraint  on 
thochts,  and  the  death  of  feelings,  which  ought  aye  to  rin 
blendin  intil  ane  anither  like  the  rainbow,  or  the  pink,  or  the 
peacock's  neck,  a  beautifu'  confusion  o'  colors,  that's  the 
mair  admired  the  mair  ignorant  you  are  o'  the  science  o' 
opticks.  I  just  perfectly  abhor  the  word  "  therefore,"  it's  sae 
pedantic  «nd  pragmatical,  and  like  a  doctor.  What's  the  use 
o'  premises  ? — commend  me  to  conclusions.  As  for  inferences, 
put  them  into  the  form  o'  apothegms,  and  never  tell  the  world 
whence  you  draw  them — for  then  they  look  like  inspiration. 
And  dinna  ye  think,  sir,  that  reasoning's  far  inferior  to 
intuition  ? 

Tickler.  How  are  your  transplanted  trees,  James  ? 
Shepherd.  A'  dead. 

Tickler.  I  can't  endure  the  idea  of  a  transplanted  tree. 
Transplantation  strikes  at  the  very  root  of  its  character  as 
a  stationary  and  stedfast  being,  flourishing  where  nature 
dropt  it.  You  may  remove  a  seedling ;  but  'tis  sacrilege 
to  hoist  up  a  huge  old  oak  by  the  power  of  machinery, 
and  stick  him  into  another  soil,  far  aloof  from  his  native 
spot,  which  for  so  many  years  he  had  sweetly  or  solemnly 
overshadowed. 


352  Was  Hogg's  Creel 

Shepherd.  Is  that  feelin  no  a  wee  owre  imaginative  ? 

Tickler.  Perhaps  it  is — and  none  the  worse  of  that  either — 
for  there's  a  tincture  of  imagination  in  all  feelings  of  any  pith 
or  moment — nor  do  we  require  that  they  should  always  be 
justified  by  reason.  On  looking  on  a  tree  with  any  emotion 
of  grandeur  or  beauty,  one  .always  has  a  dim  notion  of  its 
endurance — its  growth  and  its  decay.  The  place  about  it  is 
felt  to  belong  to  it — or  rather,  they  mutually  belong  to  each 
other,  and  death  alone  should  dissolve  the  union. 

Shepherd.  I  fin'  mysel  convincin — that  is,  being  convinced — 
but  no  by  your  spoken  words,  but  by  my  ain  silent  thochts. 
I  felt  a'  you  say,  and  mair  too,  the  first  time  I  tried  to  trans 
plant  a  tree.  It  was  a  birk — a  weepinbirk — and  I  had  loved 
and  admired  it  for  twenty  years  by  its  ain  pool,  far  up  ane  o' 
the  grains  *  o'  the  Douglas  Water,  where  I  beat  Mr.  North  at 
the  fishin — 

North.  You  never  beat  me  at  the  fishing,  sir,  and  never  will 
beat  me  at  the  fishing,  sir,  while  your  name  is  Hogg.  I  killed 
that  day — in  half  the  time — -double  the  number — 

Shepherd.  But  wecht,  sir — wecht,  sir,  wecht.  My  creel 
was  mair  nor  dooble  yours's  wecht — and  every  wean  kens 
that  in  fishin  for  a  wager,  wecht  wins — it's  aye  decided  by 
wecht. 

North.  The  weight  of  your  basket  was  not  nearly  equal  to 
mine,  you — 

Shepherd.  Confound  me  gin,  on  an  average,  ane  o'  my  troots 
didna  conteen  mair  cubic  inches  than  three  o'  yours — while 
I  had  a  ane  to  produce  that,  on  his  first  showin  his  snoot,  I 
could  hae  swore  was  a  sawmon ; — he  would  hae  filled  the 
creel  his  ain  lane — sae  I  sent  him  hame  wi'  a  callant  I  met 
gaun  to  the  school.  The  feck  o'  yours  was  mere  fry — and 
gome  had  a'  the  appearance  o'  bem'  baggy  mennons.  You're  a 

*  Grains — branches.     The  Douglas  Water  is  a  tributary  of  the  Yarrow. 


Heavier  than  North's  ?  353 

gran'  par-fisher,  sir  ;  but  you're  naeThorburn  *  either  at  troots, 

morts  or  fish,  f 

North  (starting  up  in  a  fury).     I'll  fish  you  for — 
Shepherd.  Mr.  North  !  I  am  ashamed  to  see  you  exposin 

yoursel  afore  Mr.  De  Quinshy — besides,  thae  ragin  fits  are 

dangerous — and,  some  time  or  ither,  'ill  bring  on  apoplexy. 

Oh  !  but  you're  fearsome  the  noo — -black  in  the  face,  or  rather, 

blue  and  purple — and  a'  because  I  said  that  you're  nae  Thor- 

burn  at  the  fishin.      Sit  doun — sit  doun,  sir. 

f  Mr.  NORTH  sits  down,  and  cools  and  calms  himself,  while 
the  horns  sound  for  the  ffth  course,  "  The  gloomy  nicht 
is  gathering  fast.'1' 

*  A  noted  angler  on  Tweedside. 

t  In  the  language  of  anglers,  salmon  alone  are  called  fish. 

23 


XXII. 

THE  BLOODY  BATTLE  OF  THE  BEES. 

Scene, —  The  Arbor,  Buchanan  Lodge.  Time, — Eight  o'clock. 
Present.— NORTH,  ENGLISH  OPIUM-EATER,  SHEPHERD, 
and  TICKLER.  Table  with  light  wines,  oranges,  biscuits, 
almonds,  and  raisins. 

Shepherd.  Rain  but  no  star-proof,  this  bonny  bee-hummin, 
bird-nest-concealin  Bower,  that  seems — but  for  the  trellis- 
wark  peepin  out  here  and  there  where  the  later  floweriu- 
shrubs  are  scarcely  yet  out  o'  the  bud — rather  a  production 
o'  Nature's  sel  than  o'  the  gardener's  genius.  Oh,  sir,  but  in 
its  bricht  and  balmy  beauty  'tis  even  nae  less  than  a  perfeck 
Poem! 

North.  Look,  James,  how  she  cowers  within  her  couch — 
only  the  point  of  her  bill,  the  tip  of  her  tail,  visible — so  pas 
sionately  cleaveth  the  loving  creature  to  the  nestlings  beneath 
her  mottled  breast, — each  morning  beautifying  from  down  to 
plumage,  till  next  Sabbath-sun  shall  stir  them  out  of  theii 
cradle,  and  scatter  them,  in  their  first  weak  wavering  flight, 
up  and  down  the  dewy  dawn  of  their  native  Paradise. 

Shepherd.  A  bit  mavis  !  *  Hushed  as  a  dream — and  like  a 
dream  to  be  startled  aff  in  til  ether,  if  you  but  touch  the  leaf- 
croon  that  o'er-canopies  her  head.  What  an  ee  !  Shy,  yet 
confidin — as  she  sits  there  ready  to  flee  awa  wi'  a  rustle  in  a 

*  Mavis— thrush. 
354 


The  Nest  of  a  Thrush.  355 

moment  yet  linked  within  that  rim  by  the  chains  o'  love, 
motionless  as  if  she  were  dead ! 

North.  See — she  stirs  ! 

Shepherd.  Dinna  be  disturbed.  I  could  glower  at  her  for 
hours,  musin  on  the  mystery  o'  instinct,  and  at  times  for- 
gettin  that  my  een  were  fixed  but  on  a  silly  bird, — for  sae 
united  are  a'  the  affections  o'  sentient  Natur,  that  you  hae 
only  to  keek  *  in  til  a  brush  o'  broom,  or  a  sweet-brier,  ordouii 
to  the  green  braird  aneath  your  feet,  to  behold  in  the  liiitie, 
or  the  lark — or  in  that  mavis — God  bless  her  ! — an  emblem 
o'  the  young  Christian  mother  fauldin  up  in  her  nursin  bosom 
the  beauty  and  the  blessedness  o'  her  ain  First-born  ! 

North.  I  am  now  threescore-and-ten,  James,  and  I  have, 
suffered  and  enjoyed  much  ;  but  I  know  not  if,  during  all  the 
confusion  of  those  many-colored  years,  diviner  delight  ever 
possessed  my  heart  and  my  imagination,  than  of  old  entranced 
me  in  solitude,  when,  among  the  braes,  and  the  moors,  and  the 
woods,  I  followed  the  verdant  footsteps  of  the  Spring,  uncoin- 
panioned  but  by  my  own  shadow,  and  gave  names  to  every 
nook  in  nature,  from  the  singing  birds  of  Scotland  discovered, 
but  disturbed  not,  in  their  most  secret  nests. 

Tickler.  Namby-pamby ! 

Shepherd.  Nae  sic  thing.  A  shilfa'sf  nest  within  the  angles 
made  by  the  slicht,  silvery,  satiny  stem  o'  a  bit  birk-tree,  and 
ane  o'  its  young  branches  glitterin  and  glimmerin  at  ance  wi' 
shade  and  sunshine  and  a  dowery  o'  pearls,  is  a  sicht  that, 
when  seen  for  the  first  time  in  this  life,  gars  a  boy's  being 
loup  out  o'  his  verra  bosom  richt  up  intil  the  boundless  blue 
o'  heaven ! 

Tickler.  Poo 

Shepherd.  Whisht — oh,  whisht.  For  'tis  felt  to  be  something 
far,  far  beyond  the  beauty  o'  the  maist  artfu'  contrivances  o' 

*  Keek— peep.  t  Shilfa— chaffinch. 


356  Hogg  the  «  Herrier" 

mortal  man, — and  gin  he  be  a  thochtfu'  callant,  which  frae 
wanderin  and  daunderin  by  himsel,  far  awa  frae  houses,  and 
ayont  the  loneliest  shielin  *  amang  the  hills,  is  surely  nae 
unreasonable  hypothesis,  but  the  likeliest  thing  in  natur, 
thinkna  ye  that  though  his  mood  micht  be  iridistinck  even  as 
ony  sleepin  dream,  that  nevertheless  it  maun  be  sensibly 
interfused,  throughout  and  throughout,  wi'  the  consciousness 
that  that  Nest,  wi'  sic  exquisite  delicacy  intertwined  o'  some 
substance  seemingly  mair  beautifu'  than  ony  moss  that  ever 
grew  upon  this  earth,  into  a  finest  fabric  growin  as  it  were 
out  o'  the  verra  bark  o'  the  tree,  and  in  the  verra  nook, — the 
only  nook  where  nae  winds  could  touch  it,  let  them  blaw  a' 
at  ance  frae  a'  the  airts, — wadna,  sirs,  I  say,  that  callant's 
heart  beat  wi'  awe  in  its  delicht,  feelin  that  that  wee,  cosy, 
beautifu'  and  lovely  cradle,  chirp-chirpin  wi'  joyfu'  life,  was 
bigged  there  by  the  hand  o'  Him  that  hung  the  sun  in  our 
heaven,  and  studded  with  stars  the  boundless  universe  ? 

Tickler.  James,  forgive  my  folly 

Shepherd.  That  I  do,  Mr.  Tickler — and  that  I  would  do,  if 
for  every  peck  there  was  a  firlot.  Yet  when  a  laddie,  I  was 
an  awfu'  herrier !  f  Sic  is  the  inconsistency,  because  o'  the 
corruption  o'  human  natur.  Ilka  spring,  I  used  to  hae  half 
a  dozen  strings  o'  eggs 

Tickler.— 

"  Orient  pearls  at  random  strung.* 

Shepherd.  Na — no  at  random — but  a'  accordin  to  an  innate 
sense  o'  the  beauty  o'  the  interminglin  and  interfusin  varie 
gation  o'  manifold  color,  which,  when  a'  gathered  thegither 
on  a  yard  o'  twine,  and  dependin  frae  the  laigh  roof  o'  our 
bk  cottie,  aneath  the  cheese-bauk,  and  aiblins  atween  a 
couple  o'  hangin  hams,  seemed  to  maeen  sae  fu'  o'a  strange, 

*  Shielin— a  shelter  for  sheep  or  shepherd  among  the  hills. 
t  Herrier— rifler  of  birds'  nests. 


Tickler  the  Devour er.  357 

wild,  woodland,  wonderfu',  and  maist  uuwarldish  loveliness, 
that  the  verra  rainbow  hersel,  lauchin  on  us  laddies  no  to  be 
feared  at  the  thuimer,  looked  nae  niair  celestial  than  thae 
egg-shells!  Ae  string  especially  will  I  remember  till  my 
dying  day.  It  tapered  awa  frae  the  middle,  made  o'  the 
eggs  o'  the  blackbird — douii  through  a'  possible  vareeities 
— lark,  lintie,  yellow-yite,  hedge-sparrow,  shilfa,  and  gold 
finch — ay,  the  verra  goldfinch  hersel,  rare  bird  in  the  Forest 
— to  the  twa  ends  so  dewdrap-like,  wi'  the  wee  bit  blue 
peaiiins  o'  the  kitty-wren.  Damm  Wullie  Laidlaw  for  stealin 
them  ae  Sabbath  when  we  was  a'  at  the  kirk !  Yet  I'll  try 
to  forgie  him  for  sake  o'  "  Lucy's  Flittin,"  *  and  because  not 
withstanding  that  cruel  crime,  he's  turned  out  a  gude  husband, 
a  gude  faither,  and  a  gude  freen. 

Tickler.  We  used,  at  school,  James,  to  boil  and  eat  them. 

Shepherd.  Gin  ye  did,  then  wouldna  I,  for  ony  considera 
tion,  in  a  future  state  be  your  sowl. 

Tickler.  Where's  the  difference  ? 

Shepherd.  What !  atween  you  arid  me  ?  Yours  was  a  base, 
fleshly  hunger,  or  hatred,  or  hard-heartedness,  or  scathe  and 
scorn  o'  the  quakin  griefs  o'  the  bit  bonny  shriekin  burdies 
around  the  tuft  o'  moss,  a'  that  was  left  o'  their  herried 
nests ;  but  mine  was  the  sacred  hunger  and  thirst  o'  divine 
silver  and  gold  gleamin  amang  the  diamonds  drapt  by 
mornin  on  the  hedgeraws,  and  rashes,  and  the  broom,  and 
the  whins — love  o'  the  lovely — desire  conquerin  but  no  killin 
pity — and  joy  o'  blessed  possession,  that  left  at  times  a  tear 
on  my  cheek  for  the  bereavement  o'  the  heart-broken 
warblers  o'  the  woods.  Yet  brak  I  not  mony  o'  their 
hearts,  after  a' ;  for  if  the  nest  had  five  eggs,  I  generally 
took  but  twa ;  though  I  confess  that  on  gaun  back  again  to 

*  "  Lucy's  Flitting,"  by  William  Laidlaw,  Sir  Walter  Scott's  friend,  is 
one  of  our  simplest  and  most  pathetic  melodies. 


358  The  Opium-Eater  reverses 

brae,  bank,  bush,  or  tree,  I  was  glad  when  the  nest  was 
deserted,  the  eggs  cauld,  and  the  birds  awa  to  some  ither 
place.  After  a'  I  was  never  cruel,  sirs  ;  that's  no  a  sin  o' 
mine  — and  whenever,  either  then  or  since,  I  hae  gien  pain 
to  ony  leevin  cretur,  in  nae  lang  time  after,  o'  the  twa 
pairties,  mine  has  been  the  niaist  achin  heart.  As  for  pyats, 
and  hoodie-craws,  and  the  like,  I  used  to  heirythern  without 
compunction,  £Ld  flingin  up  stanes,  to  shoot  them  wi'  a  gun 
as  they  were  flasteriri  out  o'  the  nest. 

English  Opium-Eater.  Some  one  of  my  ancestors — for,  even 
with  the  deepest  sense  of  my  own  unworthiness,  I  cannot 
believe  that  my  own  sins,  as  a  cause,  have  been  adequate 
to  the  production  of  such  an  effect — must  have  perpetrated 
some  enormous — some  monstrous  crime,  punished  in  ine,  his 
descendant,  by  utter  blindness  to  all  birds'  nests. 

Shepherd.  Maist  likely.  The  De  Quinshys  cam  ower  wi' 
the  Conqueror,  and  were  great  criminals. — But  did  you  ever 
look  for  them,  sir  ? 

English  Opium- Eater.  From  the  year  1811 — the  year  in 
which  the  Marrs  and  Williamsons  were  murdered  * — till  the 
year  1821,  in  which  Bonaparte  the  little — vulgarly  called 
Napoleon  the  Great — died  of  a  cancer  in  his  stomach — 

Shepherd.  A  hereditary  disease — accordin  to  the  doctors. 

English  Opium-Eater. did  I  exclusively  occupy  myself 

during  the  spring  months,  from  night  till  morning,  in  search 
ing  for  the  habitations  of  these  interesting  creatures. 

Shepherd.  Frae  nicht  till  mornin !  That  comes  o'  reversin 
the  order  o'  Natur.  You  micht  see  a  rookery  or  a  heronry  by 
moonlicht — but  no  a  wren's  nest  aneath  the  portal  o'some 
cave,  lookin  out  upon  a  sleepless  waterfa'  dinnin  Lo  the  stars. 

*  In  the  second  volume  of  his  Miscellanies  (1854),  Mr.  De  Quincey  has 
described  these  murders  with  a  power  and  circumstantiality  which  excite 
the  most  absorbing  interest  in  the  mind  of  the  reader. 


The  Order  of  Nature.  359 

Mr.  De  Quinshy,  you  and  me  leeves  in  twa  different  warlds — 
and  yet  its  wonnerfu'  hoo  we  understaun'  ane  anither  sae 
weel's  we  do — quite  a  phenomena.  When  I'm  soopin  you're 
breakfastin — when  I'm  lyin  doun,  after  your  coffee  you're 
risin  up — as  I'm  coverin  my  head  wi'  the  blankets,  you're 
pittin  on  your  breeks — as  my  een  are  steekin  like  sunflowers 
aneath  the  moon,  yours  are  glowin  like  twa  gas-lamps — 
and  while  your  mind  is  masterin  poleetical  economy  and 
metapheesics,  in  a  desperate  fecht  wi'  Ricawrdo  and  Kant,* 
I'm  heard  by  the  nicht-wanderin  fairies  snorin  trumpet-nosed 
through  the  land  o'  Nod. 

English  Opium-Eater.  Though  the  revolutions  of  the  hea 
venly  bodies  have,  I  admit,  a  certain  natural  connection  with 
the  ongoings  of — 

Shepherd.  Wait  awee — nane  o'  your  astrology  till  after 
sooper.  It  canna  be  true,  sir,  what  folk  say  about  the 
influence  o'  the  moon  on  character.  I  never  thocht  ye  the 
least  mad.  Indeed,  the  only  faut  I  hae  to  fin'  wi'  you  is, 
that  you're  ower  wise.  Yet  we  speak  what,  in  the  lang-run, 
would  appear  to  be  ae  common  language — I  sometimes 
understaun'  you  no  that  very  indistinctly — and  when  we 
tackle  in  our  talk  to  the  great  interests  o'  humanity,  we're 
philosophers  o'  the  same  school,  sir,  and  see  the  inner  warld 
by  the  self-same  central  licht.  We're  incomprehensible 
creturs,  are  we  men — that's  beyond  a  dout ; — and  let  us  be 
born  and  bred  as  we  may — black,  white,  red,  or  a  deep 
bricht,  burnished  copper — in  spite  o'  the  division  o'  tongues, 
there's  nae  division  o'  hearts,  for  it's  the  same  bluid  that 


*  David  Ricardo,  an  eminent  member  of  the  London  Stock  Exchange,  and 
the  profoundest  writer  on  political  economy  which  thia  country  has  pro 
duced,  died  in  1823.  Immanuel  Kant  was  the  great  philosopher  of  Kb'nigs. 
berg,  hi8  native  town,  from  which  he  was  never  farther  distant  than  twenty 
miles,  during  the  whole  course  of  a  life  which  lasted  from  1724  to  1804. 


360  The    Opium-waters  World. 

gangs  circulatin  through  our  mortal  tenements,  carrying 
alang  on  its  tide  the  same  freightage  o'  feelins  and  thochts, 
emotions,  affections,  and  passions — though,  like  the  ships  o' 
different  nations,  they  a'  hoist  their  ain  colors,  and  prood, 
prood  are  they  o'  their  leopards,  or  their  crescent-moons,  or 
their  stars,  or  their  stripes  o'  buntin ; — but  see !  when  it 
blaws  great  guns,  hoo  they  a'  fling  owerboard  their  storm- 
anchors,  and  when  their  cables  pairt,  hoo  they  a'  seek  the 
shelterin  lee  o'  the  same  michty  breakwater,  a  belief  in  the 
being  and  attributes  of  the  One  Living  God. — But  was  ye 
never  out  in  the  daytime,  sir  ? 

English  Opium-Eater.  Frequently. 

Shepherd.  But  then  it's  sae  lang  sin'  syne,  that  in  memory 
the  sunlicht  maun  seem  amaist  like  the  moonlicht, — sic, 
indeed,  even  wi'  us  that  rise  with  the  laverock,  and  lie  doun 
wi'  the  lintie,  is  the  saftenin — the  shadin — the  darkenin 
power  o'  the  Past,  o'  Time  the  Prime  Minister  o'  Life,  wha, 
in  spite  o'  a'  Opposition,  carries  a'  his  measures  by  a  silent 
vote,  and  aften,  wi'  a  weary  wecht  o'  taxes,  bows  a'  the  wide 
warld  doun  to  the  verra  dust. 

English  Opium-Eater.  In  the  South  my  familiars  have 
been  the  nightingales,  in  the  North  the  owls.  Both  are  merry 
birds — the  one  singing,  and  the  other  shouting,  in  moods  of 
midnight  mirth. — Nor  in  my  deepest,  darkest  fits  of  medita 
tion  or  of  melancholy,  did  the  one  or  the  other  ever  want 
my  sympathies, — whether  piping  at  the  root  of  the  hedgerow, 
or  hooting  from  the  trunk  of  a  sycamore — else  all  still  both 
on  earth  and  in  heaven. 

Shepherd.  Ye  maun  hae  seen  mony  a  beautifu'  and  mony  a 
sublime  sjcht,  sir,  in  the  Region,  lost  to  folk  like  us,  wha  try 
to  keep  oursels  awauk  a'  day  and  asleep  a'  nicht — and  your 
sowl,  sir,  maun  hae  acquired  something  o'  the  serene  and 
solemn  character  o'  the  sunleft  skies.  And  true  it  is,  Mr. 


The  Religious    World.  361 

De  Quinshy,  that  ye  hae  the  voice  o'  a  nicht-wanderin  man 
— laigh  and  lown — pitched  on  the  key  o'  a  wimplin  burn 
speakin  to  itsel  in  the  silence,  aneath  the  moon  and  stars. 

Tickler.  'Tis  pleasant,  James,  to  hear  all  us  four  talking 
at  one  time — your  bass,  my  counter,  Mr.  De  Quincey's 
tenor,  and  North's  treble — 

North.  Treble,  indeed ! 

Tickler.  Ay,  childish  treble — 

Shepherd.  Come,  nae  quarrellin  yet.  That's  a  quotation 
frae  Shakespeare,  and  there's  nae  insult  in  a  mere  quotation. 
(after  a  pause.)  Oh,  man  !  if  them  that's  kickin  up  sic  a  row 
the  noo  about  the  doctrine  o'  the  Christian  religion  had 
looked  intil  the  depths  o'  their  ain  natur  wi'  your  een,  they 
had  a'  been  as  mum  as  mice  keekin  roun'  the  end  o'  a  pew, 
in  place  o'  scrauchin  like  pyats  on  the  leads,  or  a  hoodie  wi'  a 
sair  throat. 

English  Opium-Eater.  I  know  not  to  what  you  allude,  Mr. 
Hogg,  for  I  live  out  of  what  is  called  the  Religious  World. 

Shepherd.  A  loud,  noisy,  vulgar,  bawlin,  brawlin,  wranglin, 
branglin,  routin,  and  roarin  warld — maist  unfittin  indeed  for 
the  likes  o'  you,  sir,  wha,  under  the  shadows  o'  woods  and 
mountains,  at  midnight,  communes  wi'  your  ain  heart,  and  is 
still. 

English  Opium-Eater.  No  religious  controversy  in  modern 
days,  sir,  ever  seemed  to  me  to  reach  back  into  those  recesses 
in  my  spirit  where  the  sources  lie  from  which  well  out  the 
bitter  or  the  sweet  waters — the  sins  and  the  miseries — the 
holinesses  and  the  happinesses  of  our  incomprehensible  being  ! 

Shepherd.  And  if  they  ever  do,  hoo  drumly  the  stream ! 

English  Opium-Eater.  Better  even  a  mere  sentimental  re 
ligion,  which,  though  shallow,  is  pure,  than  those  audacious 
doctrines  broached  by  Pride-in-Humility,  who,  blind  as  the 


362  In  a  Grave  Mood. 

bat,  essays  the  flight  of  the  eagle,  and,  ignorant  of  the  low 
est  natures,  yet  claims  acquaintance  with  the  decrees  of  the 
Most  High. 

Shepherd.  Ay — better  far  a  sentimental — a  poetical  reli 
gion,  as  you  say,  sir — though  that's  far  frae  being  the  true 
thing  either — for  o'  a'  the  Three  Blessings  o'  Man,  the  last  is 
the  best — Love,  Poetry,  and  Religion.  What'n  a  book  micht 
be  written,  I've  aften  thocht — and  aiblins  may  hae  said — on 
thae  three  words ! 

English  Opium-Eater.  Yes,  my  dear  James — Beauty,  the 
soul  of  Poetry,  is  indeed  divine — but  there  is  that  which  is 
diviner  still — and  that  is  DUTY. 

"  Flowers  laugh  before  her  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  her  footing  treads ; 
She  doth  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong, 
And  the  eternal  heavens  through  her  are  fresh  and  strong." 

Shepherd.  Wha  said  that  ? 

English  Opium-Eater.  Who? — Wordsworth.  And  the 
Edinburgh  Review — laughed. 

Shepherd.  He  has  made  it,  sin'  syne,  lauch  out  o'  the 
wrang  side  o'  its  mouth.  He  soars. 

North.  Human  life  is  always,  in  its  highest  moral  exhibi 
tions,  sublime  rather  than  beautiful — and  the  sublimity  is 
not  that  of  the  imagination,  but  of  the  soul. 

Shepherd.  If  you  will  alloo  a  simple  shepherd  to  speak  on 
gic  a  theme — 

North.  Yes,  my  dearest  James,  you  can,  if  you  choose, 
speak  on  it  better  than  either  of  us. 

Shepherd.  Weel,  then,  that  is  the  view  o'  virtue  that  seems 
maist  consistent  wi'  the  revelation  o'  its  true  nature  by  Chris 
tianity,  Isna  there,  sirs,  a  perpetual  struggle — a  ceevil  war 
— in  ilka  man's  heart  ?  This  we  ken,  whenever  we  hate  an 
opportunity  o'  discerning  what  is  gaun  on  in  the  hearts  o' 


The  Religious  Sentiment.  363 

ithers, — this  we  ken,  whenever  we  set  ourselves  to  tak  a 
steady  gaze  intil  the  secrets  o'  our  ain.  We  are,  then, 
moved — ay,  appalled,  by  much  that  we  behold  ;  and  wherever 
there  is  sin,  there,  be  assured,  will  be  sorrow.  But  arena  we 
aften  cheered,  and  consoled  too,  by  much  that  we  behold  ? 
And  wherever  there  is  goodness,  our  ain  heart,  as  weel's  them 
o'  the  spectators,  burns  within  us !  Ay — it  burns  within  us. 
We  feel — we  see,  that  we  or  our  brethren  are  pairtly  as  God 
would  wish — as  we  must  be  afore  we  can  hope  to  see  His  face 
in  mercy.  I've  often  thocht  intil  mysel  that  that  feeling  is 
ane  that  we  may  desecrate  (is  that  the  richt  word  ?)  by  rank 
ing  it  amang  them  that  appertains  to  our  senses  and  our 
imagination,  rather  than  to  the  religious  soul. 

North.  Mr.  De  Quincey ! 

English  Opium-Eater.  Listen.  An  extraordinary  man  in 
deed,  sir ! 

Shepherd.  No  me  ;  there's  naething  extraordinar  about  me, 
mair  than  about  a  thousand  ither  Scottish  shepherds.  But 
ca'  not,  I  say,  the  face  o'  that  father  beautifu'  who  stands 
beside  the  bier  o'  h-is  only  son,  and  wi'  his  ain  withered  hands 
helps  to  let  doun  the  body  into  the  grave — though  all  its 
lines,  deep  as  they  are,  are  peacefu'  and  untroubled,  and  the 
grey  uncovered  head  maist  reverend  and  affecting  in  the  sun 
shine  that  falls  at  the  same  time  on  the  coffin  of  him  who  was 
last  week  the  sote  stay  o'  his  auld  age  !  But  if  you  could 
venture  in  thocht  to  be  wi'  that  auld  man  when  he  is  on  his 
knees  before  God,  in  his  lanely  room,  blessing  Him  for  a'  His 
mercies,  even  for  having  taken  awa  the  licht  o'  his  eyes, 
extinguished  it  in  a  moment,  and  left  a'  the  house  in  dark 
ness — you  would  not  then,  if  you  saw  into  his  inner  spirit, 
venture  to  ca'  the  calm  that  slept  there — beautifu' !  Na,  na, 
na  !  In  it  you  would  feel  assurance  o'  the  immortality  of  the 
Soul — o'  the  transitoriness  o'  mere  human  sorrows — o'  the 


364  How  sorrow  is  idealized. 

vanity  o'  a'  passion  that  clings  to  the  clay — o'  the  power 
which  the  spirit  possesses  in  richt  o'  its  origin  to  see  God's 
eternal  justice  in  the  midst  o'  sic  utter  bereavement  as  might 
well  shake  its  faith  in  the  Invisible — •<>'  a'  life  where  there  is 
nae  decaying  frame  to  weep  over  and  to  bewail ;  and  sae 
thinking — and  sae  feelin — ye  would  behold  in  that  auld  man 
kneeliri  in  your  unkent  presence,  an  eemage  o'  human  nature 
by  its  intensest  sufferings  raised  and  reconciled  to  that  feenal 
state  o'  obedience,  acquiescence,  and  resignation  to  the  will 
o'  the  Supreme,  which  is  virtue,  morality,  piety,  in  ae  word 
— RELIGION.  Ay,  the  feenal  consummation  o'  mortality 
putting  on  immortality,  o'  the  soul  shedding  the  slough  o' 
its  earthly  affections,  and  reappearing  amaist  in  its  pristine 
innocence,  riae  unfit  inhabitant  o'  Heaven. 

English  Opium-Eater.  Say  not  that  a  thousand  Scottish 
shepherds  could  so  speak,  my  dear  sir. 

Shepherd.  Ay,  and  far  better,  too.  But  hearken  till  me, — 
when  that  state  o'  mind  passed  away  frae  us,  and  we  became 
willing  to  find  relief,  as  it  were,  frae  thochts  sae  far  aboon 
the  level  o'  them  that  must  be  our  daily  thochts,  then  we 
micht.  and  then  probably  we  would,  begin  to  speak,  sir,  o'  the 
beauty  o'  the  auld  man's  resignation,  and  in  poetry  or  paint 
ing  the  picture  micht  be  pronounced  beautifu',  for  then  our 
souls  would  hae  subsided,  and  the  deeper,  the  mair  solemn, 
and  the  mair  awfu'  o'  our  emotions  would  o'  themselves  hae 
retired  to  rest  within  the  recesses  o'  the  heart,  alang  wi' 
maist  o'  the  maist  mysterious  o'  our  moral  and  religious  con 
victions. — (Dog  barks.)  Heavens  !  I  could  hae  thocht  that 
was  Bronte! 

North.  No  bark  like  his,  James,  now  belongs  to  the  world 
of  sound. 

Shepherd.  Purple  black  was  he  all  over,  except  the  star  on 
his  breast — as  the  raven's  wing.  Strength  and  sagacity 


The  Death  of  Bronte.  365 

emboldened  his  bounding  beauty,  and  a  fierceness  lay  deep 
down  within  the  quiet  lustre  o'  his  een,  that  tauld  ye,  even 
when  he  laid  his  head  upon  your  knees,  and  smiled  up  to  your 
face  like  a  verra  intellectual  and  moral  cretur, — as  he  was, — 
that  had  he  been  angered,  he  could  hae  torn  in  pieces  a 
lion. 

North.  Not  a  child  of  three  years  old  and  upwards,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Lodge,  that  had  not  hung  by  his  mane, 
and  played  with  his  fangs,  and  been  affectionately  worried  by 
him  on  the  flowery  greensward. 

Shepherd.  Just  like  a  stalwart  father  gambollin  wi'  his 
lauchin  bairns ! — And  yet  there  was  a  heart  that  could  bring 
itsel  to  pushion  Bronte  !  When  the  atheist  flung  him  the 
arsenic  ba',  the  deevil  was  at  his  elbow.* 

North.  'Twas  a  murder  worthy  of  Hare  or  Burke,  or  the 
bloodiest  of  their  most  cruel  and  cowardly  abettors. 

Shepherd.  I  agree  wi'  you,  sir  ;  but  dinna  look  sae  white, 
and  sae  black,  and  sae  red  in  the  face,  and  then  sae  mottled, 
as  if  you  had  the  measles ;  for  see,  sir,  how  the  evening 
sunshine  is  sleeping  on  his  grave ! 

North.  No  yew-tree,  James,  ever  grew  so  fast  before — Mrs 
Gentle  herself  planted  it  at  his  head.  My  own  eyes  were 
somewhat  dim,  but  as  for  hers  —  God  love  them  ! — they 
streamed  like  April  skies — and  nowhere  else  in  all  the 
garden  are  the  daisies  so  bright  as  on  that  small  mound. 
That  wreath,  so  curiously  wrought  into  the  very  form  of  flowery 
letters,  seems  to  fantasy  like  a  funeral  inscription — his  very 
came — -Bronte. 

Shepherd.  Murder's  murder,  whether  the  thing  pushioned 
\iae  four  legs  or  only  twa — for  the  crime  is  curdled  into  crime 

*  Bronte  was  poisoned— at  least  so  it  is  very  confidently  believed— by 
some  of  Dr.  Knox's  students,  in  revenge  for  the  exposure  of  the  principles 
5n  which  their  anatomical  school  was  conducted. 


366  Are  Animals  immortal? 

in  the  blackness  o'  the  sinner's  heart,  and  the  revengefu' 
shedder  even  of  bestial  blood  would,  were  the  same  demon  to 
mutter  into  his  ears,  and  shut  his  eyes  to  the  gallows,  poison 
the  wel  1  in  which  the  cottage-girl  dips  the  pitcher  that  breaks 
the  reflection  o'  her  bonny  face  in  that  liquid  heaven. — But 
hark !  wi'  that  knock  on  the  table  you  hae  frichtened  the 
mavis ! — Aften  do  I  wonder  whether  or  no  birds,  and  beasts, 
and  insecks  hae  immortal  sowls  ! 

English  Opium-Eater.  What  God  makes,  why  should  He 
annihilate  ?  Quench  our  own  Pride  in  the  awful  conscious 
ness  of  our  Fall,  and  will  any  other  response  come  from  that 
oracle  within  us — Conscience — than  that  we  have  no  claim  on 
God  for  immortality,  more  than  the  beasts  which  want  indeed 
"  discourse  of  reason,"  but  which  live  in  love,  and  by  love, 
and  breathe  forth  the  manifestations  of  their  being  through 
the  same  corruptible  clay  which  makes  the  whole  earth  one 
mysterious  burial-place,  unfathomable  to  the  deepest  sound 
ings  of  our  souls  ! 

Shepherd.  True,  Mr.  De  Quinshy — true,  true.  Pride's  at 
the  bottom  o'  a'  our  blindness,  and  a'  our  wickedness,  and  a' 
our  madness  ;  for  if  we  did  indeed  and  of  verity,  a'  the  nichts 
and  a'  the  days  o'  our  life,  sleepin  and  waukin,'  in  delicht  or 
in  despair,  aye  remember,  and  never  for  a  single  moment 
forget,  that  we  are  a' — WORMS — Milton,  and  Spenser,  and 
Newton — gods  as  they  were  on  earth — and  that  they  were 
gods,  did  not  the  flowers  and  the  stars  declare,  and  a'  the 
two  blended  warlds  o'  Poetry  and  Science,  lyin  as  it  were 
like  the  skies  o'  heaven  reflected  in  the  waters  o'  the  earth, 
in  ane  anither's  arms  ?  Ay,  Shakespeare  himsel  a  WORM — 
and  Imogen,  and  Desdemona,  and  Ophelia,  a'  but  the  eemages 
o'  WORMS — and  Macbeth,  and  Lear,  and  Hamlet !  Where 
would  be  then  our  pride  and  the  self-idolatry  o'  our  pride, 
and  all  the  vain-glorifications  o'  our  imagined  magnificence  ? 


0' Bronte  arrive-s.  367 

Dashed  doun  into  the  worm-holes  o'  our  birth-place,  among 
all  crawlin  and  slimy  things — and  afraid  in  our  lurking-places 
to  face  the  divine  purity  o'  the  far,  far-aff  and  eternal  heavens 
in  their  infinitude  ! — Puir  Bronte's  dead  and  buried — and  sae 
in  a  few  years  will  a'  Us  Fowre  be  !  Had  we  naething  but 
our  boasted  reason  to  trust  in,  the  dusk  would  become  the 
dark — and  the  dark  the  mirk,  mirk,  mirk  ;  but  we  have  the 
Bible, — and  lo !  a  golden  lamp  illumining  the  short  miduicht 
that  blackens  between  the  mortal  twilight  and  the  immortal 
dawn. 

North  (blowing  a  boatswain's  whistle).  Gentlemen — look 
here ! 

(A  noble  young  Newfoundlander  comes  bounding  into 
the  Arbor.) 

Shepherd.  Mercy  me  !  mercy  me  !  the  verra  dowg  himsel ! 
The  dowg  wi'  the  star-like  breast ! 

North.  Allow  me.  my  friend,  to  introduce  you  to  O'BRONTE. 

Shepherd.  Ay — 111  shake  paws  wi'  you,  my  gran'  fallow ; 
and  though  it's  as  true  among  dowgs  as  men,  that  he's  a 
clever  chiel  that  kens  his  ain  father,  yet  as  sure  as  wee  Jamie's 
mine  ain,  are  you  auld  Bronte's  son.  You've  gotten  the  verra 
same  identical  shake  o'  the  paw — the  verra  same  identical 
wag  o'  the  tail.  (See,  as  Burns  says,  hoo  it  "  hangs  ower 
his  hurdies  wi'  a  swurl.")  Your  chowks  the  same — like  him, 
too,  as  Shakespeare  says,  "dew-lapped  like  Thessawlian  bills." 
The  same  braid,  smooth,  triangular  lugs,  hanging  doun  aneath 
your  chafts  ;  and  the  same  still,  serene,  smilin,  and  sagacious 
een.  Bark  !  man — bark  !  let  us  hear  you  bark. — Ay,  that's 
the  verra  key  that  Bronte  barked  on  whenever  "  his  blood 
teas  up  and  heart  beat  high : "  and  I'se  warrant  that  in 
anither  year  or  less,  in  a  street-row,  like  your  sire  you'll 
clear  the  causeway  o'  a  clud  o'  curs,  and  carry  the  terror  o' 
your  name  frae  the  Auld  to  the  New  Flesh-market ;  though 


368  North's  Magical  powder. 

tak  my  advice,  ma  dear  O' Bronte,  and,  except  when  circum 
stances  imperiously  demand  war,  be  thou — thou  jewel  of  a 
Jowler — a  lover  of  peace  ! 

English  Opium-Eater.  I  am  desirous,  Mr.  Hogg,  of  culti 
vating  the  acquaintance — nay,  I  hope  of  forming  the  friend 
ship — of  that  noble  animal.  Will  you  permit  him  to — 

Shepherd.  Gang  your  wa's,*  O' Bronte,  and  speak  till  the 
English  Opium-Eater.  Ma  faith !  you  hae  nae  need  o'  drogs 
to  raise  your  animal  speerits,  or  heighen  your  imagination. 
What'n  intensity  o'  life ! — But  whare's  he  been  sin'  he  was 
puppied,  Mr.  North? 

North.  On  board  a  whaler.  No  education  like  a  trip  to 
Davis  Strait. 

Shepherd.  He'll  hae  speeled,  I'se  warrant  him,  mony  an  ice 
berg — and  worried  mony  a  seal — aiblins  a  walrus,  or  sea-lion. 
But  are  ve  no  feared  o'  his  rinnin  awa  to  sea  ? 

North.  The  spirit  of  his  sire,  James,  has  entered  into  him, 
and  he  would  lie,  till  he  was  a  skeleton,  upon  my  grave. 

Shepherd.  It  canna  be  denied,  sir,  that  you  hae  an  un 
accountable  power  o'  attaching  to  you,  no  only  dowgs,  but 
men,  women,  and  children.  I've  never  douted  but  that  you 
maun  hae  some  magical  pouther,  that  you  blaw  in  amang 
their  hair — na,  intil  their  verra  lugs  and  een — imperceptible 
fine  as  the  motes  i'  the  sun — and  then  there's  nae  resistance, 
but  the  sternest  Whig  saftens  afore  you,  the  roots  o'  the 
Radical  relax,  and  a' distinctions  o'  age,  sex  and  pairty — the 
last  the  stubbornest  and  dourest  o'  a' — fade  awa  intil  undis- 
tinguishable  confusion — and  them  that's  no  in  the  secret  o' 
your  glamoury,  fears  that  the  end  o'  the  warld's  at  haun,  and 
that  there  'ill  sune  be  nae  mair  use  for  goods  and  chattels  in 
the  Millennium. 

Tickler.  As  I  am  a  Christian — 

*  Gang  your  wa's— get  off. 


O'BroHte  swallows  Opium.  369 

Shepherd.  You  a  Christian  ! 

Tickler  Mr.  De  Quincey  has  given  O'  Bronte  a  box  of 
opium. 

Shepherd.  What !  Has  the  dowg  swallowed  the  spale-box 
o'  pills  ?  We  maun  gar  him  throw  it  up. 

English  Opium-Eater.  The  most  monstrous  and  ignominious 
ignorance  reigns  among  all  the  physicians  of  Europe  respect 
ing  the  powers  and  properties  of  the  poppy. 

Shepherd.  I  wush  in  this  case,  sir,  that  the  poppy  mayna 
pruve  ower  poorfu'  for  the  puppy,  and  that  the  dowg's  no  a 
dead  man.  Wull  ye  take  your  Bible-oath  that  he  bolted  the 
box? 

English  Opium-Eater.  Mr.  Hogg,  I  never  could  see  any  suffi 
cient  reason  why,  in  a  civilized  and  Christian  country,  an 
oath  should  be  administered  even  to  a  witness  in  a  court  of 
justice.  Without  any  formula,  Truth  is  felt  to  be  sacred — 
nor  will  any  words  weigh — 

Shepherd.  You're  for  upsettin  the  haill  frame  o'  ceevil 
society,  sir,  and  bringing  back  011  this  kintra  a'  the  horrors  o' 
the  French  Revolution.  The  power  o'  an  oath  lies,  no  in  the 
Reason,  but  in  the  Imagination.  Reason  tells  that  simple 
affirmation  or  denial  should  be  aneuch  atween  man  and  man. 
But  Reason  canna  bind,  or  if  she  do,  Passion  snaps  the  chain. 
For  ilka  passion,  sir,  even  a  passion  for  a  bead  or  a  button, 
is  as  strong  as  Samson  bursting  the  withies.  But  Imagination 
can  bind,  for  she  ca's  on  her  Flamin  Ministers — the  Fears  ; 
— they  palsy-strike  the  arm  that  would  disobey  the  pledged 
lips — and  thus  oaths  are  dreadfu'  as  Erebus  and  the  gates  o' 
hell. — But  see  what  ye  hae  dune,  sir, — only  look  at  O'Bronte 

[O' BRONTE  sallies  from  the  Arbor — goes  driving  head-over- 
heels  through  among  the  flower-beds,  tearing  up  pinks  and 
carnations  with  his  mouth  and  paws,  and,  finally,  makes 
repeated  attempts  to  climb  up  a  tree. 


370  0" Bronte 's  Hallucinations. 

English  Opium-Eater.  No  such  case  is  recorded  in  the 
medical  books — and  very  important  conclusions  may  be  drawn 
from  an  accurate  observation  of  the  phenomena  now  exhibited 
by  a  distinguished  member  of  the  canine  species,  under  such 
a  dose  of  opium  as  would  probably  send  Mr.  Coleridge  *  him 
self  to — 

Shepherd. — his  lang  hame — or  Mr.  De  Quinshy  either — 
though  I  should  be  loth  to  lose  sic  a  poet  as  the  ane,  and  sic 
a  philosopher  as  the  ither — or  sic  a  dowg  as  O'Bronte. — But 
look  at  him  speelin  up  the  apple-tree  like  the  auld  serpent ! 
He's  thinkin  himsel,  in  the  delusion  o'  the  drog,  a  wull-cat 
or  a  bear,  and  has  clean  forgotten  his  origin.  Deil  tak  me 
gin  I  ever  saw  the  match  o'  that !  He's  gotten  up  ;  and's 
lyin  a'  his  length  on  the  branch,  as  if  he  were  streekin  himsel 
out  to  sleep  on  the  ledge  o'  a  brig !  What  thocht's  gotten 
intil  his  head  noo  ?  He's  for  herryin  the  goldfinch's  nest 
amang  the  verra  tapmost  blossoms  ! — Ay,  my  lad  !  that  was 
a  thud ! 

O'BRONTE,  who  has  fallen  from  the  pippin,  recovers  his  feet 
— storms  the  Arbor — upsets  the  table,  with  all  the  bottles, 
glasses,  and  plates — and  then,  dashing  through  the  glass 
front-door  of  the  Lodge,  disappears  with  a  crash  into  the 
interior. 

English  Opium-Eater.  Miraculous  ! 

Shepherd.  A  hairy  hurricane  I — What  think  ye,  sir,  o*  the 
SCOTTISH  OPIUM-EATER  ? 

English  Opium-Eater.     I  hope  it  is  not  hydrophobia. 
Tickler.  He  manifestly  imagines  himself  at  the  whaling, 
and  is  off  with  the  harpooners. 

Shepherd.  A  vision  o'  blubber's  in  his  sowl.  Oh  that  he 
could  gie  the  warld  his  Confessions  ! 

*  S.  T.  Coleridge  was  a  great  consumer  of  opium.     See  his  "  Confessions  H 
In  Cottle's  neminisoences.  Burn  in  1771,  Coleridge  died  in  1834. 


The  Beehive  is  upset.  371 

English  Opium- Eater.  Mr.  Hogg,  how  am  I  to  understand 
that  insinuation,  sir  ? 

Shepherd.  Ony  way  you  like.  But  did  ever  onybody  see 
a  philosopher  sae  passionate  ?  Be  cool — be  cool.  . 

Tickler.  See,  see,  see  ! 

[O'BRONTE. 

'«  Like  a  glory  from  afar, 
Like  a  reappearing  star," 

comes  spanging  back  into  the  cool  of  the  evening,  with 
CYPRUS,  NORTH'S  unique  male  tortoise-shell  cat  in  his 
mouth,  followed  by  JOHN  and  BETTY,  broom-and-spit- 
armed,  with  other  domestics  in  the  distance. 
North.     Drop   Cyprus,   you   villain !     Drop  Cyprus,  you 
villain  !     I  say,  you  villain,  drop  Cyprus — or  I  will  brain  you 
with  Crutch  ! 

[O'BRONTE  turns  a  deaf  ear  to  all  remonstrances,  and  con 
tinues  his  cat-carryiny  career,  through  flower,  fruit,  and 
kitchen-gardens — the  crutch  having  sped  after  him  in 
vain,  and  upset  a  beehive. 

Tickler.  Demme — I'm  off.  [Makes  himself  scarce. 

North.  Was  that  thunder  ? 

Shepherd.  Bees — bees — bees  !  Intil  the  Arbor — intil  the 
Arbor. — Oh  !  that  it  had  a  door  wi'  a  hinge,  and  a  bolt 
in  the  inside  !  Hoo  the  swarm's  ragin  wud  !  The  hum- 
min  heavens  is  ower  het  to  haud  them — and  if  ae  leader 
chances  to  cast  his  ee  hither,  we  are  lost.  For  let  but  ane 
set  the  example,  and  in  a  moment  there  'ill  be  a  charge  o' 
beggonets.* 

English  Opium-Eater.  In  the  second  book  of  his  Georgics 
Virgil,  at  once  poet  and  naturalist, — and  indeed  the  two 
characters  are,  I  believe,  uniformly  united, — beautifully  treats 
of  the  economy  of  bees — and  I  remember  one  passage — 

*  Beggonets — bayonets. 


372  Hoyy  and  Tickler  fly. 

Shepherd.  They're  after  Tickler — they're  after  Tickler — 
like  a  cloud  o'  Cossacks  or  Polish  Lancers — a'  them  that's  no 
settlin  on  the  crutch.  And  see — see,  a  division — the  left  o' 
the  army — is  bearin  doun  on  O'Bronte.  He'll  sune  liberate 
Ceeprus. 

Tickler  (sub  tegmine  fagi).     Murder — murder — murder! 

Shepherd.  Ay,  you  may  roar — that's  nae  flea-bitin — nor 
midge-bitin  neither — na,  it's  waur  than  wasps — for  wasps' 
stings  hae  nae  barbs,  but  bees'  hae — and  when  they  strike 
them  in,  they  canna  rug  them  out  again  withouten  leavin 
ahint  their  entrails — sae  they  curl  theirsels  up  upon  the 
wound,  be  it  on  haun,  neck,  or  face,  and,  demon-like,  spend 
their  vitality  in  the  sting,  till  the  venom  gangs  dirlin  to  your 
verra  heart.  But  do  ye  ken  I'm  amaist  sorry  for  Mr.  Tickler 
— for  he'll  be  murdered  outricht  by  the  insecks — although  he 
in  a  mainner  deserved  it  for  rinnin  awa,  and  no  sharin  the 
common  danger  wi'  the  rest  at  the  mouth  of  the  Arbor.  If 
he  escapes  wi'  his  life,  we  maun  ca'  a  court-martial,  and  hae 
him  broke  for  cooardice.  Safe  us  !  he's  comin  here  wi'  the 
haill  bike1*  about  his  head! — Let  us  rin  ! — let  us  rin!  Let 
us  rin  for  our  lives  !  \_The  SHEPHERD  is  off  and  away. 

North.  What !  and  be  broke  for  cowardice  !  Let  us  die  at 
our  posts  like  men. 

English  Opium-Eater.  I  have  heard  Mr.  "Wordsworth  deliver 
an  opinion,  respecting  the  courage,  or  rather  the  cowardice, 
of  poets,  which  at  the  time,  I  confess,  seemed  to  me  to  be 
unwarranted  by  any  of  the  accredited  phenomena  of  the 
poetical  character.  It  was  to  this  effect :  That  every  passion 
of  the  poet  being  of  "  imagination  all  compact,"  fear  would 
in  all  probability,  on  sudden  and  unforeseen  emergencies, 
gain  an  undue  ascendancy  in  his  being  over  all  the  other 
unaroused  active  powers ; — (and  here  suffer  me  to  put  you 

*  Bike — swarm. 


The  Philosopher's  Serenity.  373 

on  your  guard  against  believing,  that  by  the  use  of  such 
terms  as  Active  Powers,  I  mean  to  class  myself,  as  a  meta 
physical  moralist,  in  the  Scottish  school, — that  is,  the  school 
more  especially  of  Reid  and  Stewart* — whose  ignorance  of 
the  Will — the  sole  province  of  Moral  Philosophy — I  hold  to 
be  equally  shameful  and  conspicuous  :) — so  that,  except  in 
cases  where  that  Fear  was  withstood  by  the  force  of  Sym 
pathy,  the  poet  so  assailed  would,  ten  to  one  (such  was  the 
homely  expression  of  the  Bard  anxious  to  clinch  it),  take  to 
almost  immediate  flight.  This  doctrine,  as  I  have  said, 
appeared  to  me,  at  that  time,  not  to  be  founded  on  a  suffi 
ciently  copious  and  comprehensive  induction  ; — but  I  had, 
very  soon  after  its  oral  delivery  by  the  illustrious  author  of 
the  Excursion,  an  opportunity  of  subjecting  it  to  the  test 
act: — For,  as  Mr.  Wordsworth  and  myself  were  walking 
through  a  field  of  considerable — nay,  great  extent  of  acres 
— discussing  the  patriotism  of  the  Spaniards,  and  more  par 
ticularly  the  heroic  defence  of 

"  Iberian  burghers,  when  the  sword  they  drew 
In  Zaragoza,  naked  to  the  gales 
Of  fiercely-breathing  war," 

a  bull  of  a  red  color  (and  that  there  must  be  something 
essentially  and  inherently  vehement  in  red,  or  rather  the 
natural  idea  of  red,  was  interestingly  proved  by  that  answer 
of  the  blind  man  to  an  inquirer  more  distinguished  probably 
for  his  curiosity  than  his  acuteness — "  that  it  was  like  the 
sound  of  a  trumpet ")  bore  down  suddenly  upon  our  dis 
course,  breaking,  as  you  may  well  suppose,  the  thread 
thereof,  and  dissipating,  for  a  while,  the  many  high  dreams 
(dreams  indeed  !)  which  we  had  been  delighting  to  predict 

*  Dr.  Thomas  Reid,  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University 
of  Glasgow,  born  in  1709,  died  in  1796.  Dugald  Stewart,  Professor  ot 
Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  born  in  1753,  died  in 


374  North  threatens  to  Fire. 

of  the  future  fates  and  fortunes  of  the  Peninsula.  The 
Bard's  words,  immediately  before  the  intrusion  of  Taurus, 
were,  "  that  death  was  a  bugbear,"  and  that  the  universal 
Spanish  nation  would  "  work  out  their  own  salvation."  One 
bellow — and  we  were  both  hatless  on  the  other  side  of  the 
ditch.  "  If  they  do,"  said  I,  "  I  hope  it  will  not  be  after  our 
fashion,  with  fear  and  trembling."  But  I  rather  suspect, 
Mr.  North,  that  I  am  this  moment  stung  by  one  of  those 
insects  behind  the  ear,  and  in  among  the  roots  of  the  hair, 
nor  do  I  think  that  the  creature  has  yet  disengaged — or 
rather  disentangled  itself  from  the  nape — for  I  feel  it  strug 
gling  about  the  not — I  trust — immedicable  wound — the  bee 
being  scarcely  distinguishable,  while  I  place  my  finger  on  the 
spot,  from  the  swelling  round  the  puncture  made  by  its  sting, 
which,  judging  from  the  pain,  must  have  been  surcharged 
with — nay,  steeped  in  venom.  The  pain  is  indeed  most  acute 
— and  approaches  to  anguish — I  had  almost  said  agony. 

North.  Bruise  the  bee  "  even  on  the  wound  himself  has 
made."  'Tis  the  only  specific. — Any  alleviation  of  agony  ? 

English  Opium-Eater.  A  shade.  The  analysis  of  such  pain 
as  I  am  now  suffering — or  say  rather,  enduring — 

[TICKLER  and  the  SHEPHERD,  after  having  in  vain  sought 
shelter  among  the  shrubs,  come  flying  demented  towards 
the  Arbor. 

Tickler  and  Shepherd.  Murder ! — murder ! — murder ! 

North.— 

"  Arcades  ambo, 

Et  cantare  pares,  et  respondere  parati !  " 

English  Opium-Eater.  Each  encircled,  as  to  his  forehead, 
with  a  living  crown — a  murmuring  bee-diadem  worthy  of 
Aristaeus. 

North.  Gentlemen,  if  you  mingle  yourselves  with  us,  I  will 
shoot  you  both  dead  upon  the  spot  with  this  fowling-piece. 


0' 'Bronte  is  attacked.  375 

Shepherd.  What'n  a  foolin-piece  ?  Oh  !  sir,  but  you're 
cruel  !  [TICKLER  lies  down,  and  rolls  himself  on  a  plat. 

North.  Destruction  to  a  bed  of  onion-seed  !  James  !  into 
the  tool-house. 

Shepherd.  I  hae  tried  it  thrice — but  John  and  Betty  hae 
barred  themselves  in  against  the  swarm. — Oh  !  dear  me — 
I'm  exhowsted — sae  let  me  lie  down  and  dee  beside  Mr. 
Tickler!  [The  SHEPHERD  lies  down  beside  Mr.  TICKLER. 

English  Opium-Eater.  If  any  proof  were  wanting  that  I  am 
more  near-sighted  than  ever,  it  would  be  that  I  do  not  see  in 
all  the  air,  or  round  the  luminous  temples  of  Messrs.  Tickler 
and  Hogg,  one  single  bee  in  motion  or  at  rest. 

North.  They  have  all  deserted  their  stations,  and  made  a 
simultaneous  attack  on  O'Bronte.  Now,  Cyprus,  run  for 
your  life ! 

Shepherd  (raising  his  head).  Hoo  he's  devoorin  them  by 
hunders  ! — Look,  Tickler. 

Tickler.  My  eyes,  James,  are  bunged  up — and  I  am  flesh- 
blind. 

Shepherd.  Noo  they're  yokin  to  Ceeprus !  His  tail's  as 
thick  wi'  pain  and  rage  as  my  arm.  Hear  till  him  cater- 
waulin  like  a  haill  roof-fu' !  Ma  stars,  he'll  gang  mad,  and 
O'Bronte  'ill  gang  mad,  and  we'll  a'  gang  mad  thegither,  and 
the  garden  'ill  be  ae  great  madhouse,  and  we'll  tear  ane 
anither  to  pieces,  and  eat  ane  anither  up  stoop  and  roop, 
and  a'  that  'ill  be  left  o'  us  in  the  mornin  'ill  be  some  bloody 
tramplin  up  and  doun  the  beds,  and  that  'ill  be  a  catastrophe 
Waur — if  possible — than  that  o'  Sir  Walter's  Ayrshire 
Tragedy — and  Mr.  Murray  'ill  melodramateeze  us  in  a  piece 
ca'd  the  "  Bluidy  Battles  o'  the  Bees  ;  "  and  pit,  boxes,  and 
gallery  'ill  a'  be  crooded  to  suffocation  for  a  hunder  nichta 
at  haill  price,  to  behold  swoopin  alang  the  stage  the  LAST  o 
THE  NOCTES  AMBROSIANJE  !  !  ! 


376  The  Hive  exterminated' 

English  Opium-Eater.  Then,  indeed,  will  the  "gaiety  of 
nations  be  eclipsed  "  ;  sun,  moon,  and  stars  may  resign  their 
commission  in  the  sky,  and  Old  Nox  reascend,  never  more  to 
be  dislodged  from  the  usurpation  of  the  effaced,  obliterated, 
and  extinguished  universe. 

Shepherd.  Nae  need  o'  exaggeration.  But  sure  aneuch  I 
wadna,  for  anither  year,  in  tha4.  case,  insure  the  life  o'  the 
Solar  System — (Rising  up.) — Whare's  a'  the  bees  ? 

North.  The  hive  is  almost  exterminated.  You  and  Tickler 
have  slain  your  dozens  uud  your  tens  of  dozens — O'Bronte 
has  swallowed  some  scores — Cyprus  made  no  bones  of  his 
allowance — and  Mr.  De  Quincey  put  to  death — one.  So 
much  for  the  killed.  The  wounded  you  may  see  crawling 
in  all  directions,  dazed  and  dusty  ;  knitting  their  hind-legs 
together,  and  impotently  attempting  to  unfurl  their  no 
longer  gauzy  wings.  As  to  the  missing,  driven  by  fear  from 
house  and  home,  they  will  continue  for  days  to  be  picked  up 
by  the  birds,  while  expiring  on  their  backs  on  the  tops  of 
thistles  and  binweeds — and  of  the  living,  perhaps  a  couple 
of  hundreds  may  be  on  the  combs,  conferring  on  State  affairs, 
and — 

Shepherd.  Mournin  for  their  queen.     Sit  up,  Tickler. 

[TICKLER  rises,  and  shakes  himself. 
What'n  a  face ! 

North.  'Pon  my  soul,  my  dear  Timothy,  you  must  be  bled 
forthwith — for  in  this  hot  weather  inflammation  and  fever — 

Shepherd.  Wull  sune  end  in  mortification — then  coma — and 
then  death.  We  maun  lance  and  leech  him,  Mr.  North,  for 
we  canna  afford,  wi'  a'  his  failins,  to  lose  Southside. 

Tickler.   Lend  me  your  arm,  Kit — 

North.  Take  my  crutch,  my  poor  dear  fellow.  How  are 
you  now  ? 

Shepherd.  Hoo  are  you  noo  ? — Hoo  are  you  noo  ? 


A   G-hastly  Visage.  377 

English  Opium-Eater.  Mr.  Tickler,  I  would  fain  hope,  sir, 
that,  notwithstanding  the  assault  of  those  infuriated  insects, 
which  in  numbers  without  number  numberless,  on  the  up 
setting — 

Tickler.  Oh  !  oh  !— Whoh  !  whoh  !— whuh !  whuh  ! 

Shepherd.  That  comes  o'  wearin  nankeen  pantaloons  with 
out  drawers,  and  thin  French  silk  stockins  wi'  open  gushets, 
and  nae  neckcloth,  like  Lord  Byron.  I  find  corduroys  and 
tap-boots  impervious  to  a'  mainner  o'  insects, — bees,  wasps, 
hornets,  ants,  midges,  clegs,  and,  warst  o'  a' — the  gad.  By 
the  time  the  bite  reaches  the  skin,  the  venom's  drawn  out  by 
ever  so  mony  plies  o'  leather,  linen,  and  wurset — and  the 
spat's  only  kittly.  But  (putting  his  hand  to  his  face)  what's 
this  ? — Am  I  wearin  a  mask  ? — a  fause-face  wi'  a  muckle 
nose  ?  Tell  me,  Mr.  North,  tell  me,  Mr.  De  Quinshy,  on  the 
honors  o'  twa  gentlemen  as  you  are,  am  I  the  noo  as  ugly  as 
Mr.  Tickler  ? 

North.  'T would  be  hard  to  decide,  James,  which  face 
deserves  the  palm  ;  yet — let  me  see — let  me  see — I  think — I 
think,  if  there  be  indeed  some  slight  shade  of — What  say  you, 
Mr.  De  Quincey  ? 

English  Opium-Eater.  I  beg  leave,  without  meaning  any 
disrespect  to  either  party,  to  decline  delivering  any  opinion 
on  a  subject  of  so  much  delicacy,  and — 

Tickler  and  Shepherd  (gvffawing).  What'n  a  face !  what'n  a 
face  !  Oh !  what'n  a  face  ! 

English  Opium-Eater.  Gentlemen,  here  is  a  small  pocket- 
mirror,  which,  ever  since  the  year — 

Shepherd.  Dinna  be  sae  chronological,  sir,  when  a  body's 
sufferin.  Gie's  the  glass  (looks  in) —  and  that's  ME  ?  Blue, 
black,  ochre,  gambooshe,  purple,,  pink,  and — green  !  Bottle- 
nosed — wi'  een  like  a  piggie's  !  The  Owther  o'  the  Queen's 
Wake  !  I  maun  hae  my  pictur  taen  by  John  Watson  Gordon, 


878  Leeches  are  applied 

set  in  diamonds,  and  presented  to  the  Empress  o'  Russia,  or 
some  ither  croon'd  head.  I  wunner  what  wee  Jamie  wad 
think !  It  is  a  phenomena  o'  a  fizzionamy. — An'  hoo  sail  I 
get  out  the  stings  ? 

North.  We  must  apply  a  searching  poultice. 

Shepherd.  O'  raw  veal  ? 

Tickler  (taking  the  mirror  out  of  the  Shepherd's  hand).  Ay  ! 

North.  Twould  be  dangerous,  Timothy,  with  that  face,  to 
sport  Narcissus. 

"  Sure  such  a  pair  were  never  seen, 
So  aptly  formed  to  meet  by  nature  I  " 

Ha!  O'Bronte? 

[O' BRONTE  enters  the  Arbor p,  still  under  the  influence  of  opium. 
What  is  your  opinion  of  these  faces  ? 

O'Bronte.  Bow — wow — wow — wow. — Bow — wow — wow- 
wow  ! 

Shepherd.  He  taks  us  for  Eskymaws. 
North.  Say  rather  seals,  or  sea-lions. 
O'Bronte.  Bow — wow — wow — wow. — Bow — wow — wow- 
wow  ! 

Shepherd.  Laugh'd  at  by  a  dowg ! — Wha  are  ye  ? 
[JOHN  and  BETTY  enter  the  Arbor  with  basins  and  towels, 

and  a  phial  of  leeches. 

North.  Let  me  manage  the  worms. — Lively  as  fleas. 
[Mr.  NORTH,  with  tender  dexterity,  applies  six  leeches  to  the 

SHEPHERD'S  face. 

Shepherd.  Preens — preens — preens — preens  !  * 
North.  Now,  Tickler. 
[Attempts,  unsuccessfully,  to  perform  the  same  kind  office 

to  TICKLER. 

Your  sanguineous  system,  Timothy,  is  corrupt.  They  won't 
fasten. 

*  Preens — pins 


To  the  Wounded.  379 

Shepherd.  Wtmna  they  sook  him  ?  I  find  mine  hangin  cauld 
frae  temple  to  chaft,  and  swallin — there's  ane  o'  them  played 
plowp  intil  the  basin. 

North.  Betty — the  salt. 

Shepherd.  Strip  them,  Leezy.  There's  anither. 

North.  Steady,  my  dear  Timothy,  steady  ;  ay  !  there  he 
does  it,  a  prime  worm — of  himself  a  host.  Sir  John  Leech. 

English  Opium-Eater.  I  observe  that  a  state  of  extreme 
languor  has  succeeded  excitement,  and  that  0' Bronte  has  now 
fallen  asleep.  Hark  !  a  compressed  whine,  accompanied  by 
a  slight  general  convulsion  of  the  whole  muscular  system, 
indicates  that  the  creature  is  in  the  dream-world. 

Shepherd.  In  dookin  !  or  fechtin — or  makin  up  to  a— 

North.  Remove  the  apparatus. 

[JOHN  and  BETTY  carry  away  the  basins,  pitchers,  phial, 
towels,  fyc.,  fyc. 

Shepherd.  Hoo's  my  face  noo  ? 

North.  Quite  captivating,  James.  That  dim  discoloration 
sets  off  the  brilliancy  of  your  eyes  to  great  advantage ;  and  I 
am  not  sure  if  the  bridge  of  your  nose  as  it  now  stands  be 
not  an  improvement. 

Shepherd.  Weel,  weel,  let's  say  nae  mair  about  it.  That's 
richt,  Mr.  Tickler,  to  hang  your  silk  handkerchy  ower  your 
face  like  a  nun  takin  the  veil.  Whare  were  we  at  ? 

Tickler.  I  vote  we  change  the  Arbor  for  the  Lodge.  'Tis 
cold — positively  chill — curse  the  climate  ! 

English  Opium-Eater.  Our  sensations  are  the  sole — 

Shepherd.  If  you're  cauld,  sir,  you  may  gang  and  warm 
yoursel  at  the  kitchen  fire.  But  we'se  no  stir — 

Tickler.  Curse  the  climate  ! 

Shepherd.  Cleemat !  Where's  the  cleemat  like  it,  I  would 
wush  to  ken  ?  Greece  ?  Italy  ?  Persia  ?  Hindostan  ?  Poo- 
poo — poo  !  Wha  could  thole  months  after  months  o'  ae  kind 


380  Real  Scotch  Thunder. 

o'  wather,  were  the  sky  a'  the  while  lovely  as  an  angel's  ee? 
Commend  me  to  the  bold,  bricht,  black,  boisterous,  and 
blusterin  beauty  o'  the  British  heavens  ! 

Tickler.  But  what  think  ye,  James,  of  a  tropic  tornado,  or 
hurricane  ? 

Shepherd.  I  wouldna  gie  a  doit  for  a  dizzen.  Swoopin  awa 
a  toun  o'  wooden  cages,  wi'  ane  bigger  than  the  lave,  ca'd 
the  governor's  house,  and  aiblins  a  truly  contemptible  kirk, 
floatin  awa  into  rottenness  sae  muckle  colonial  produce,  rice, 
rum,  or  sugar,  arid  frichtening  a  gang  o'  neeggers  !  It  mayna 
roar  sae  loud  nor  sae  lang,  perhaps,  our  ain  indigenous  Scottish 
thunner;  but  it  rairs  loud  and  larig  aneuch  too,  to  satisfy  ony 
reasonable  Christian  that  has  the  least  regard  for  his  lugs. 
Nae  patriot,  Mr.  Tickler,  would  undervalue  his  native  kintra's 
thunner.  Hear  it  spangin — hap,  step,  and  loup — frae  Crua- 
chan  to  Ben  Nevis  !  The  red-deer — you  micht  think  them  a' 
dead — and  that  their  antlers  were  rotten  branches — sae  stane- 
like  do  they  couch  atween  the  claps — without  ae  rustle  in  the 
heather.  Black  is  the  sky  as  pitch — but  every  here  and 
there,  shootin  up  through  the  purple  gloom, — for  whan  the 
lichtnin  darts  out  its  fiery  serpents  it  is  purple, — lo  !  bricht 
pillars  and  pinnacles  illuminated  in  the  growlin  darkness, 
and  then  gone  in  a  moment  in  all  their  glory,  as  the  day- 
nicht  descends  denser  doun  upon  the  heart  o'  the  glens,  and 
you  only  hear  the  mountain-tap  ;  for  wha  can  see  the  thousand 
year-auld  cairn  up-by  yonder,  when  a'  the  haill  heaven  is  ae 
coal-cloud — takin  fire  every  noo  and  then  as  if  it  were  a 
furnace — and  then  indeed  by  that  flash  may  you  see  the 
cairn  like  a  giant's  ghost  ?  Up  goes  the  sable  veil — for  an 
eddy  has  been  churning  the  red  river  into  spray,  and  noo  is 
a  whirlwind — and  at  that  updriving  see  ye  not  a  hundred 
gnaw-white  torrents  tumblin  frae  the  tarns,  and  every  cliff 
rejoicin  in  its  new-born  cataract  ?  There  is  tho,  van  o'  amthor 


The  "  Buffoonery  "  of  the  Noetes.  381 

cloud-army  frae  the  sea.  What  'ill  become  o'  the  puir  ships  ? 
A  dismal  word  to  think  on  in  a  tempest — lee-shore  !  There's 
nae  wund  noo — only  a  sort  o'  sugh.  Yet  the  cloud-army 
comes  on  in  the  dead  march — and  that  is  the  muffled  drum. 
Na — that  flash  gaed  through  my  head,  and  I  fear  I'm  stricken 
blind!  Rattle — rattle — rattle — as  if  great  granite  stanes 
were  shot  out  o'  the  sky  doun  an  invisible  airn-roof,  and 
plungin  sullenly  intil  the  sea.  The  eagles  daurna  scream — 
but  that  demon  the  raven  croaks — croaks — croaks, — is  it  out 
o'  the  earth,  or  out  o'  the  air,  cave  or  cloud  ?  My  being  is 
cowed  in  the  insane  solitude.  But  pity  me — bless  me — is 
that  a  wee  bit  Hieland  lassie  sittin  in  her  plaid  aneath  a 
stane,  a'  by  hersel,  far  frae  hame,  ha'in  been  sent  to  look 
after  the  kids — for  I  declare  there  is  ane  lyin  on  her  bosom, 
and  its  mither  maun  be  dead !  Dinna  be  frichtened,  my 
sweet  Mhairi,  for  the  lichtnin  shanna  be  allowed  by  God  to 
touch  the  bonny  blue  ribbon  round  thy  yellow  hair  ! — There's 
a  bit  o'  Scottish  thunner  and  lichtnin  for  you,  Mr.  Tickler, 
and  gin  it  doesna  satisfy  you,  aff  to  the  troppics  for  a  tor- 
nawdoe ! 

English  Opium-Eater.  You  paint  in  words,  mine  admirable 
Shepherd,  Nature  in  all  her  moods  and  aspects — 

Shepherd.  The  coorse  buffoonery — the  indecent  ribaldry  o' 
the  Noetes  Ambrosianae  ! ! 

English  Opium-Eater.  Spirit  of  Socrates,  the  smiling  sage ! 
whose  life  was  love,  I  invoke  thee  to  look  down  from  heaven 
upon  this  blameless  arbor,  and  bless  "  Edina's  old  man 
eloquent."  Unsphere  thy  spirit,  0  Plato  !  or  let  it  even,  like 
some  large  and  lustrous  star,  hang  over  the  bower  where  oft 
in  musing  "  melancholy  sits  retired  "  the  grey-haired  Wisdom- 
Seeker  whom  all  Britain's  youth  adore,  or  "  discourseth  most 
excellent  music  "  with  lips  on  which,  as  on  thine  own,  in 
infancy  had  swarmed — 


382  An  Invocation. 

Shepherd.  For  Heaven's  sake,  nae  mention  o'  bees  !  That's 
a  sair  subjeck  wi'  me  and  Mr.  Tickler.  Get  on  to  some  o' 
the  lave. 

English  Opium-Eater.  Nor  thou,  stern  Stagirite !  who  nobly 
heldst  that  man's  best  happiness  was  "  Virtuous  Energy," 
avert  thy  face  severe  from  the  high  moral  "  Teacher  of  the 
Lodge,"  of  whom  Truth  declares  that  "  he  never  lost  a  day." 

Shepherd.  That's  bonny. 

English  Opium-Eater.  From  thy  grove  gardens  in  the  sky, 
O  gracious  and  benign  Epicurus !  let  drop  upon  that  cheerful 
countenance  the  dews  of  thy  gentle  and  trouble-soothing 
creed ! 

Shepherd.  Od  !  I  thocht  Epicurus  had  been  a  great  Epicure. 

English  Opium-Eater.  And  thou,  O  matchless  Merryman  o' 
the  Frogs  and  the  Clouds !  * — 

Shepherd.  Wha  the  deevil's  he  ?  The  matchless  Merryman 
o'  the  Frogs  and  Clouds  ! — That's  opium.  But  hush  your 
havers,  Mr.  De  Quinshy ;  and  tell  me,  Mr.  North,  what  for 
ye  didna  come  out  to  Innerleithen  and  fish  for  the  silver  medal 
of  the  St.  Ronan's  Border  Club  !  I'm  thinkin  ye  was  feared. 

North.  I  have  won  so  many  medals,  James,  that  my  ambi 
tion  a\ti  apcareveiv  f  is  dead — and,  besides,  I  could  not  think  of 
beating  the  Major.  $ 

Shepherd.  You  beat  the  Major  !  You  micht  at  baggy  men 
nons,  but  he  could  gie  ye  a  stane-wecht  either  at  trouts  or  fish. 
He's  just  a  warld's  wunner  wi'  the  sweevil,  a  warlock  wi' 
the  worm,  and  wi'  the  flee  a  feenisher.  It's  a  pure  pleesur 
to  see  him  playin  a  pounder  wi'  a  single  hair.  After  the  first 
twa-three  rushes  are  ower,  he  seems  to  wile  them  wi'  a  charm 
awa  into  the  side,  ontil  the  gerss  or  the  grevvel,  whare  they 


*  Aristophanes.  t  Always  to  excel . 

$  Major  Mackay,  a  flrst-rate  angler,  and  esteemed  friend  of  Professor  Wil- 


North  in  Loch  Awe.  383 

He  in  the  sunshine  as  if  they  were  asleep,  His  tackle,  for 
bricht  airless  days,  is  o'  gossamere  ;  and  at  a  wee  distance  aff, 
you  think  he's  fishin  without  on}'  line  ava,  till  whirr  gangs 
the  pirn,  and  up  springs  the  sea-trout,  silver-bricht,  twa  yards 
out  o'  the  water,  by  a  delicate  jerk  o'  the  wrist,  hyucked 
inextricably  by  the  tongue  clean  ower  the  barb  o'  the  Kirby- 
bend.  Midge-flees ! 

North.  I  know  the  Major  is  a  master  in  the  art,  James  ;  but 
I  will  back  the  Professor*  against  him  for  a  rump-and-dozen. 

Shepherd.  You  would  just  then,  sir,  lose  your  rump.  The 
Professor  can  fish  nae  better  nor  yoursel.  You  would  make  a 
pretty  pair  in  a  punt  at  the  perches  ;  but  as  for  the  Tweed,  at 
trouts  or  sawmon,  I'll  back  wee  Jamie  again'  ye  baith,  gin 
ye'll  only  let  me  fish  for  him  the  bushy  pools. f 

North.  I  hear  you,  James.  Sir  Isaac  Newton  was  no 
astronomer.  .  .  . 

Shepherd.  I  hae  nae  objection,  sir,  noo  that  there's  nae 
argument,  to  say  that  you're  a  gude  angler  yoursel,  and  sae 
is  the  Professor. 

North.  James,  these  civilities  touch.  Your  hand.  In  me 
the  passion  of  the  sport  is  dead — or  say  rather  dull ;  yet  have 
I  gentle  enjoyment  still  in  the  "  Angler's  silent  Trade."  But, 
heavens  !  my  dear  James  !  how  in  youth,  and  prime  of  man 
hood  too — I  used  to  gallop  to  the  glens  like  a  deer,  over  a 
hundred  heathery  hills,  to  devour  the  dark-rolling  river,  or 
the  blue  breezy  loch  ! 

Shepherd.  Ay,  sir,  in  your  younger  days  you  maun  hae  been 
a  verra  deevil.  What  creelfu's  you  maun  hae  killed  ! 

North.  A  hundred  and  thirty  in  one  day  in  Loch  Awe, 
James,  as  I  hope  to  be  saved — not  one  of  them  under — 

Shepherd.  A  dizzen  pun', — and  twa-thirds  o'  them  aboon't. 
A'thegither  a  ton.  If  you  are  gaun  to  use  the  lang-bow,  sir, 

*  Wilson.  f  Where  deep  wading  is  required. 


384  The  Shepherd's  Baskets. 

pu'  the  string  to  your  lug,  never  fear  the  yew  crackin,  and 
send  the  grey-guse-feathered  arrow  first  wi'  a  lang  whiz,  and 
then  wi'  a  short  thud,  right  intil  the  bull's  ee,  at  ten  score, 
to  the  astonishment  o'  the  ghost  o'  Robin  Hood,  Little 
John,  Adam  Bell,  Clym  o'  the  Clough,  and  William  o' 
Cloudeslee. 

North.  My  poor  dear  old  friend,  M'Neil  of  Hayfield  * — God 
rest  his  soul — it  is  in  heaven — at  ninety  as  lifeful  as  a  boy  at 
nineteen — held  up  his  hands  in  wonder,  as  under  a  shady 
tree  I  laid  the  hundred  and  thirty  yellow  shiners  on  the  bank 
at  his  feet. 

Shepherd.  Poo !  That  was  nae  day's  fishin  ava,  man,  in 
comparison  to  ane  o'  mine  on  St.  Mary's  Loch.  To  sae  nae- 
thing  about  the  countless  sma'  anes,  twa  hunder  about  half  a 
pun',  ae  hunder  about  a  haill  pun',  fifty  about  twa  pun',  five- 
and-twenty  about  fowre  pun',  and  the  lave  rinnin  frae  half  a 
stane  up  to  a  stane  and  a  half,  except  about  half-a-dizzen 
aboon  a'  wecht,  that  put  Geordie  Gudefallow  and  Huntly 
Gordon t  to  their  mettle  to  carry  them  pechint  to  Mount 
Benger  on  a  haun-barrow. 

North.  Well  done.  Ulysses. 

Shepherd.  Anither  clay,  in  the  Megget,  I  caucht  §  a  cartfu'. 
As  it  gaed  doun  the  road,  the  kintra  folk  thocht  it  was  a 
cartfu'  o'  herrins — for  they  were  a'  preceesely  o'  ae  size  to  an 
unce — and  though  we  left  twa  dizzen  at  this  house — and  four 
dizzen  at  that  house — and  a  gross  at  Henderland — on  countin 
them  at  hame  in  the  kitchen,  Leezy  made  them  out  forty 
dizzen,  and  Girzzy  forty -twa,  aught ;  sae  a  dispute  ha'in 
arisen,  and  o'  coorse  a  bet,  we  took  the  census  ower  again, 

*  On  the  banks  of  Loch  Awe. 

t  The  friend  and  amanuensis  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  For  an  interesting  ac 
count  of  his  connection  with  Scott,  see  Lockhart's  Life,  vol.  ix.  p.  195  et  seq, 
second  edition. 

J  7>eefcin— panting.  §  COMIC  A*— caught. 


FLU  * 


TJie  Prayer  of  Ajax.  385 

and  may  these  be  the  last  words  I  sail  ever  speak,  gin  they 
didna  turn  out  to  be  Forty-Five  ! 

Tickler.  Mr.  De  Quincey,  now  that  these  two  old  fools  have 
got  upon  angling — 

Shepherd.  Twa  auld  fules  !  You  great,  starin,  Saracen- 
headed  Langshanks  !  If  it  werena  for  bringin  Mr.  North 
intil  trouble,  by  ha'in  a  dead  man  fun'  within  his  premises, 
deil  tak  me  gin  I  wadna  fractur  your  skull  wi'  ane  o'  the  cut 
crystals  ! 

[Mr.  NORTH  touches  the  spring,  and  the  Bower  is  in  dark 
ness. 

Tickler.— 

tf  But  such  a  chief  I  spy  not  through  the  host— 
De  Quincey,  North,  and  Shepherd,  all  are  lost 
In  general  darkness.    Lord  of  earth  and  air  ! 
O  King  !  O  Father  !  hear  my  humble  prayer  : 
Dispel  this  cloud,  the  light  of  heaven  restore ; 
Give  me  to  see,  and  Tickler  asks  no  more. 
If  I  must  perish- 1  thy  will  obey, 
But  let  me  perish  in  the  face  of  day  !  " 

Shepherd.     Haw  !  haw !  haw !     The  speech  o*  Awjax,  in 
Pop's  Homer. 
North.     Gentlemen,  let  us  go  to  supper  in  the  Lodge. 

[  Omnes  mrgunL 
Shepherd.     What'n  a  sky  ! 
North.— 

11  Now  glow'd  the  firmament 
With  living  sapphires.    Hesperus,  that  led 
The  starry  host,  rode  brightest— till  the  Moon, 
Rising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length, 
Apparent  Queen  !  unveil' d  her  peerless  light, 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  threw." 

25 


XXIII. 

IN  WHICH,  AFTER  THE  SHEPHERD  HAS  APPEARED 
SUCCESSIVELY  AS  PAN,  AS  HERCULES,  AND  THE 
APOLLO  BELVIDERE,  NORTH  EXHIBITS  HIS  GREAT 
PICTURE— THE  DEFENCE  OF  SOCRATES. 

Scene, — The  Snuggery.    Time, — Nine.    Present, — NORTH, 
SHEPHERD,  and  TICKLER. 

Tickler.  CENTAUR  !  No  more  like  a  centaur,  James,  than 
he  is  like  a  whale.  Ducrow  *  is  not  "  demi-corpsed  " — as 
Shakespeare  said  of  Laertes — with  what  he  bestrides ;  how 
could  he,  with  half-a-dozen  horses  at  a  time  ?  If  the  block 
heads  will  but  look  at  a  centaur,  they  will  see  that  he  is  not 
six  horses  and  one  man,  but  one  manhorse  or  horseman, 
galloping  on  four  feet,  with  one  tail,  and  one  face  much  more 
humane  than  either  of  ours — 

Shepherd.  Confine  yoursel  to  your  ain  face,  Mr.  Tickler. 
A  centaur  would  hae  sma'  diffeeculty-  in  ha'in  a  face  mair 
humane  nor  yours,  sir — for  it's  mair  like  the  face  o'  Notus  or 
Eurus  nor  a  Christian's ;  but  as  for  ma  face,  sir,  it's  meeker 
and  milder  than  that  o'  Charon  himsel — 

North.     Chiron,  James. 

Shepherd.  Weel,  then,  Cheeron  be't — when  he  was  instillin 
wisdom,  music,  and  heroism  intil  the  sowl  o'  Achilles,  him 

*  The  famous  equestrian. 


The  Poetry  of  Motion.  387 

that  afterwards  grew  up  the  maist  beautifu'  and  dreadfu'  o' 
a'  the  sons  o'  men. 

Tickler.  The  glory  of  Ducrow  lies  in  his  Poetical  Imper 
sonations.  Why,  the  horse  is  but  the  air,  as  it  were,  on  which 
he  flies !  What  godlike  grace  in  that  volant  motion,  fresh 
from  Olympus,  ere  yet "  new-lighted  on  some  heaven-kissing 
hill !  "  What  seems  "  the  feathered  Mercury  "  to  care  for  the 
horse,  whose  side  his  toe  but  touches,  as  if  it  were  a  cloud  in 
the  ether  ?  As  the  flight  accelerates,  the  animal  absolutely 
disappears,  if  not  from  the  sight  of  our  bodily  eye,  certainly 
from  that  of  our  imagination,  and  we  behold  but  the  messenger 
of  Jove,  worthy  to  be  joined  in  marriage  with  Iris. 

Shepherd.  I'm  no  just  sae  poetical's  you,  Mr.  Tickler,  when 
I'm  at  the  circus ;  and  ma  bodily  een,  as  ye  ca'  them,  that's 
to  say,  the  een  ane  on  ilka  side  o'  ma  nose,  are  far  ower  gleg 
ever  to  lose  sicht  o'  yon  bonny  din  meer. 

North.     A  dun  mare,  worthy  indeed  to  waft  Green  Turban, 

"  Far  descended  of  the  Prophet  line," 

across  the  sands  of  the  Desert. 

Shepherd.  Ma  verra  thocht !  As  she  flew  round  like  licht- 
jiin,  the  sawdust  o'  the  amphitheatre  becam  the  sand-dust  o' 
Arawbia — the  heaven-doomed  region,  for  ever  and  aye,  o'  the 
sons  o'  Ishmael. 

Tickler.     Gentlemen,  you  are  forgetting  Ducrow. 

Shepherd.  Na.  It's  only  you  that's  forgettin  the  din  meer. 
His  Mercury's  beautifu' ;  but  his  Gladiawtor's  shooblime.* 

Tickler.     Roman  soldier,  you  mean,  James. 

Shepherd.  Haud  your  tongue,  Tickler.  Isna  a  Roman 
sodger  a  Gladiawtor  ?  Doesna  the  verra  word  Gladiawtor 
come  frae  the  Latin  for  swurd  ?  Nae  wunner  the  Romans 


*  Ducrow's  impersonations  of  ancient  statues  were  as  perfect  as  his  horse- 
niauship. 


388  The  Roman  Soldier. 

conquered  a'  the  warld,  gin  a'  their  sodgers  focht  like  yon  ! 
Sune  as  Ducraw  tyuck  his  attitude,  as  stedfast  on  the  steed 
as  on  a  stane,  there  ye  beheld,  stauning  afore  you,  wi'  helmet, 
swurd,  and  buckler,  the  eemage  o'  a  warrior-king !  The 
hero  looked  as  gin  he  were  about  to  engage  in  single  combat 
wi'  some  hero  o'  the  tither  side — some  giant  Gaul — perhaps 
himsel  a  king — in  sicht  o'  baith  armies — and  by  the  eagle- 
crest  could  ye  hae  sworn,  that  sune  would  the  barbaric  host 
be  in  panic-flicht.  What  ither  man  o'  woman  born  could  sus 
tain  sic  strokes,  delivered  wi'  sovereign  micht  and  sovereign 
majesty,  as  if  Mars  himsel  had  descended  in  mortal  guise,  to 
be  the  champion  o'  his  am  eternal  city  ? 

North.  Ma  verra  thocht. 

Shepherd.  Your  thocht !  you  bit  puir,  useless,  trifling  cre- 
tur ! — Ax  you  pardon,  sir — for  really,  in  the  enthusiasm  o' 
the  moment,  I  had  forgotten  wha's  vice  it  was,  and  thocht  it 
was  Mr.  Tickler's. 

Tickler.     Whose? 

Shepherd.  Sit  still,  sir.  I  wunner  gin  the  Romans,  in 
battle,  used,  like  our  sodgers,  to  cry,  "  Huzzaw,  huzzaw, 
huzzaw ! " 

North.  We  learned  it  from  them,  James.  And  ere  all  was 
done,  we  became  their  masters  in  that  martial  vociferation. 
Its  echoes  frightened  them  at  last  among  the  Grampians  ;  and 
they  set  sail  from  unconquered  Caledon. 

Shepherd.     What  a  bluidy  beatin  Galgacus  gied  Agricola ! 

North.  He  did  so  indeed,  James — yet  see  how  that  fellow, 
his  son-in-law  Tacitus,  lies  like  a  bulletin.  He  swears  the 
Britons  lost  the  battle. 

Shepherd.  Haw,  haw,  haw !  What  ?  I've  been  at  the 
verra  spat — and  the  tradition's  as  fresh  as  if  it  had  been  but 
the  verra  day  after  the  battle,  that  the  Romans  were  cut  aff 
till  a  man. 


Prometheus.  389 

North.     Not  one  escaped  ? 

Shepherd.  Deevil  the  ane — the  hills,  where  the  chief  car 
nage  rotted,  are  greener  nor  the  lave  till  this  hour.  Nae 
white  clover  grows  there — nae  white  daisies — wad  you  believe 
me,  sir,  they're  a'  red  ?  The  life-draps  seepit  *  through  the 
grun' — and  were  a  body  to  dig  doun  far  aneuch,  wha  kens 
but  he  wouldna  come  to  coagulated  gore,  strengthening  the 
soil  aneath,  till  it  sends  up  showers  o'  thae  sanguinary  gowans 
and  clover,  the  product  o'  inextinguishable  Roman  bluid?  f 

Tickler.     The  Living  Statues  ! 

North.  Perfect.  The  very  Prometheus  of  ^Eschylus.  Oh  ! 
James !  what  high  and  profound  Poetry  was  the  Poetry  of 
the  world  of  old !  To  steal  fire  from  heaven — what  a  glori 
ous  conception  of  the  soul  in  its  consciousness  of  immortal 
ity ! 

Shepherd.  And  what  a  glorious  conception  o'  the  sowl,  in 
its  consciousness  o'  immortality,  o'  Divine  Justice !  0  the 
mercy  o'  Almichty  Jove !  To  punish  the  Fire-stealer  by 
fastening  him  doun  to  a  rock,  and  sendin  a  vultur  to  prey  on 
his  liver — perpetually  to  keep  prey-preyin  on  his  puir  liver, 
sirs — waur  even  nor  the  worm  that  never  dees, — or,  if  no 
waur,  at  least  as  ill — rug-ruggin — gnaw-gnawin — tear-tearin 
— howk-howking  at  his  meeserable  liver,  aye  wanin  and  aye 
waxin  aneath  that  unpacified  beak — that  beak  noo  cuttin  like 
a  knife,  noo  clippin  like  shissors,  noo  chirtin  like  pinchers, 
noo  hagglin  like  a  cleaver  !  A'  the  while  the  body  o'  the 
glorious  sinner  bun'  needlessly  till  a  rock-block — needlessly 
bun',  I  say,  sir,  for  stirless  is  Prometheus  in  his  endurance  o' 
the  doom  he  drees,  as  if  he  were  but  a  Stane-eemage,  or  ane 
o'  the  unsufferin  dead  ! 


*  Seepitf— soaked. 

t  As  Lotichius  sings  of  the  banks  of  the  Neckar  :— 

"  Ripa  gerit  regum  natos  e  sanguine  flores, 
E  quibus  Heroum  texent  sibi  serta  nepotes." 


390  Tlie  Glory  of  Prometheus. 

North.     A  troubled  mystery ! 

Shepherd.  Ane  amaist  fears  to  pity  him,  lest  we  wrang 
fortitude  sae  majestical.  Yet  see,  it  stirs  !  Ha  !  'twas  but 
the  vultur.  Prometheus  himself  is  still — in  the  micht,  think 
ye,  sir,  o'  curse  or  prayer  ?  Oh !  yonner's  just  ae  single 
slicht  shudder — as  the  demon,  to  get  a  stronger  purchase  at 
his  food,  taks  up  new  grun'  wi'  his  tawlons,  and  gies  a  fluff 
and  a  flap  wi'  his  huge  wings  again'  the  ribs  o'  his  victim, 
utterin — was't  horrid  fancy  ? — a  gurglin  throat-croak  choked 
savagely  in  bluid  ! 

North.  The  Spirit's  triumph  over  pain,  that  reaches  but 
cannot  pierce  its  core — 

"  In  Pangs  sublime,  magnificent  in  Death  !  " 

Tickler.  Life  in  Death !  Exultation  in  Agony  !  Earth 
victorious  over  Heaven !  Prometheus  bound  in  manglings 
on  a  sea-cliff,  more  godlike  than  Jove  himself,  when 

"  Nutu  tremefecit  Olympum  ! »' 

Shepherd.  Natur  victorious  ower  the  verra  Fate  her  ain 
imagination  had  creawted  !  And  in  the  dread  confusion  o' 
her  superstitious  dreams,  glorifying  the  passive  magnanimity 
o'  man,  far  ayont  the  active  vengeance  o'  the  highest  o'  her 
gods  !  A  wild  bewilderment,  sirs,  that  ought  to  convince  us 
that  nae  licht  can  ever  be  thrown  on  the  moral  government 
that  reigns  ower  the  region  o'  human  life — nae  licht  that's  no 
mair  astoundin  than  the  blackness  o'  darkness — but  that  o' 
Revelation,  that  ae  day  or  ither  shall  illumine  the  uttermost 
pairts  o'  the  earth. 

North.  Noble.  These  Impersonations  by  Ducrow,  James, 
prove  that  he  is  a  man  of  genius. 

Shepherd.     Are  they  a*  his  ain  inventions  ? 

North.    Few  or  none.    Why,  if  they  were,  he  would  be  the 


The  Apollo.  391 

greatest  of  sculptors.  But  thus  to  convert  his  frame  into 
such  forms — shapes — attitudes — postures — as  the  Greek 
imagination  moulded  into  perfect  expression  of  the  highest 
states  of  the  soul — that,  James,  shows  that  Ducrow  has  a 
spirit  kindred  to  those  who  in  marble  made  their  mythology 
immortal. 

Shepherd.  That's  bonny — na,  that's  gran'.  It  gars  a  body 
grue — just  like  ain  o'  thae  lines  in  poetry  that  suddenly 
dirls  through  you — just  like  ae  smite  on  a  single  string  by  a 
master's  haun,  that  gars  shiver  the  haill  harp. 

Tickler.  Ducrow  was  not  so  successful  in  his  Apollo. 

North.  'Twas  the  Apollo  of  the  painters,  Tickler ;  not  of 
the  sculptors. 

Tickler.  True.     But  why  not  give  us  the  Belvidere  ? 

North.  I  doubt  if  that  be  in  the  power  of  mortal  man. 
But  even  were  Ducrow  to  show  us  that  statue  with  the  same 
perfection  that  crowns  all  his  other  impersonations,  unless  he 
were  to  stand  for  hours  before  us,  we  should  not  feel,  to  the 
full,  its  divine  majesty  ;  for  in  the  marble  it  grows  and  grows 
upon  us  as  our  own  spirits  dilate,  till  the  Sun-god  at  last 
almost  commands  our  belief  in  his  radiant  being,  and  we 
hear  ever  the  fabled  Python  groan ! 

Tickler.  Yes,  North,  our  emotion  is  progressive — just  as 
the  worshipper  who  seeks  the  inner  shrine  feels  his  adoration 
rising  higher  and  higher  at  every  step  he  takes  up  the 
magnificent  flight  in  front  of  the  temple. 

Shepherd.  Na,  na,  na — this  'ill  never  do.  It's  manifest  that 
you  twa  hae  entered  intil  a  combination  again'  me,  and  are 
comin  ower  me  wi'  your  set  speeches,  a'  written  doun,  and 
gotten  aff  the  nicht  afore,  to  dumfounder  the  Shepherd. 
What  bit  o'  paper's  that,  Mr.  Tickler,  keekin  out  o'  the  pocket 
o'  your  vest  ?  Notts.  Notts  in  short  haun — and  a'  the  time 
you  was  pretendin  to  be  crunklin't  up  to  licht  the  tip  o'  your 


392  Tickler  detected. 

segawr,  hae  you  been  cleekin  baud  o'  the  catch-word — and 
that's  the  gate  yon  deceive  the  Snuggery  intil  admiration  o' 
your  extemporawneous  eeloquence  !  The  secret's  out  noo — 
an'  I  wunner  it  was  never  blawn  afore  ;  for  noo  that  my  een 
are  opened,  they  set  till  richts  my  lugs  ;  and  on  considerin 
hoo  matters  used  to  staun'  in  the  past,  I  really  canna  chairge 
ma  memory  wi'  a  mair  feckless  cretur  than  yoursel  at  a 
reply. 

North.  You  do  me  cruel  injustice,  James — were  I  to  pre 
pare  a  single  paragraph,  I  should  stick— 

Shepherd.  Oh  !  man,  hoo  I  would  enjoy  to  see  you  stick  ! 
stickin  a  set  speech  in  a  ha'  fu'  o'  admirin,  that  is,  wunnerin 
hunders  o'  your  fellow-citizens,  on  Parliamentary  Reform, 
for  instance,  or  Slavery  in  the  Wast  Indies,  or — 

North.  The  supposition,  sir,  is  odious  ;  I — 

Shepherd.  No  in  the  least  degree  odious,  sir — but  superla 
tively  absurd,  and  ludicrous  far  ayont  the  boun's  o'  lauchter — 
excepp  that  lauchter  that  torments  a'  the  inside  o'  a  listener 
and  looker-on,  an  internal  earthquake  that  convulses  a  body 
frae  the  pow  till  the  paw,  frae  the  fingers  till  the  feet,  till  a* 
the  pent-up»  power  o'  risibility  bursts  out  through  the  mouth 
like  the  lang-smouldering  fire  vomited  out  o'  the  crater  o'  a 
volcawno,  and  then  the  astonished  warld  hears,  for  the  first 
time,  what  heaven  and  earth  acknowledge  by  their  echoes  to 
be  indeed — a  Guffaw  ! 

North.  James,  you  are  getting  extremely  impertinent ! 

Shepherd.  Nae  personality,  sir ;  nae  personality  sail  be 
alloo'd,  in  ma  presence  at  least,  at  a  Noctes.  That's  to  say, 
nae  personality  towards  the  persons  present — for  as  to  a'  the 
rest  o'  the  warld,  men,  women  and  children,  I  carena  though 
you  personally  insult,  ane  after  anither,  a'  the  human  race. 

North.  I  insult  ? 

Shepherd.  Yes — you  insult.     Haena   ye  made   the   hail! 


Tickler  assumes  the  Crod.  393 

civileesed  warld  your  enemy  by  that  tongue  and  that  pen  o' 
yours,  that  spares  neither  age  nor  sect  ? 

North.  I  ?  ?  ? 

Shepherd.  You !  ! ! 

Tickler.  Come,  come,  gentlemen,  remember  where  you  are, 
and  in  whose  presence  you  are  sitting  ;  but  look  here — here  is 
the 

APOLLO  BELVIDERE. 
[TICKLER  is  transformed  into  Apollo  Belvidere. 

Shepherd.  That's  no  canny. 

North.  In  his  lip  "  what  beautiful  disdain  !  " 

Shepherd.  As  if  he  were  smellin  at  a  rotten  egg. 

North.  There  "  the  Heavenly  Archer  stands." 

Shepherd.  I  wadna  counsel  him  to  shoot  for  the  Guse 
Medal.  Henry  Watson  *  would  ding  him  till  sticks. 

North.  I  remember,  James,  once  hearing  an  outrageous  dis 
pute  between  two  impassioned  connoisseurs,  amateurs,  men  of 
vertu,  cognoscenti,  dilettanti,  about  this  very  Apollo  Belvidere. 

Shepherd.  Confoun'  me  gin  he's  no  monstrous  like  marble  ! 
His  verra  claes  seem  to  hae  drapped  aff  him — and  I'se  no  pit 
on  my  specks,  for  fear  he  should  pruve  to  be  naked. — What 
was  the  natur  o'  the  dispute  ? 

North.  Simply  whether  Apollo  advanced  his  right  or  left 
foot — 

Shepherd.  Ane  o'  the  disputants  maun  hae  been  a  great 
fule.  Shouldna  Apollo  pit  his  best  fit  foremost,  that  is  the 
richt  ane,  on  such  an  occasion  as  shootin  a  Peethon  ?  Hut 
tut. — Stop  a  wee — let's  consider.  Na,  it  maun  be  the  left  fit 
foremost — unless  he  was  ker-haun'd.  f  Let's  try't. 

*  Mr.  Henry  Watson,  an  accomplished  member  of  the  Queen's  Body-Guard, 
the  Royal  Scottish  Archers,  is  a  brother  of  the  distinguished  painter,  Sir 
John  Watson  Gordon.  [Mr.  Watson,  who  is  still  (1876)  hale  and  hearty, 
has  recently  endowed  a  "  Fine  Art  Chair  "  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh, 
as  a  memorial  to  his  brother.] 

t  Ker-haun'd— leftr-handed. 


394  Which  is  the  true  Apollo  ? 

[The  SHEPHERD  rises,  and  puts  himself  into  the  attitude  of 
the  Apollo  Belvidere — insensibly  transforming  himself  into 
another  TICKLER  of  a  shorter  and  stouter  size. 

North.  I  could  believe  myself  in  the  Louvre,  before  Mrs. 
Hemans  wrote  her  beautiful  poem  on  the  Restoration  of  the 
Works  of  Art  to  Italy.  Were  the  two  brought  to  the  hammer, 
an  auctioneer  might  knock  them  down  for  ten  thousand 
pounds  each. 

Shepherd.  Whilk  of  us  is  the  maist  Apollonic,  sir  ? 

North.  Why,  James,  you  have  the  advantage  of  Tickler  in 
being,  as  it  were,  in  the  prime  of  youth — for  though  by  the 
parish  register  you  have  passed  the  sixtieth  year-stone  on  the 
road  of  life,  you  look  as  fresh  as  if  you  had  not  finished  the 
first  stage. 

Shepherd.  Do  you  hear  that,  Mr.  Tickler  ? 

North.  You  have  also  most  conspicuously  the  better  of  Mr. 
Tickler  in  the  article  of  hair.  Yours  are  locks — his  leeks. 

Shepherd.  Mr.  Tickler,  are  you  as  deaf  and  dumb's  a  statue, 
as  weel's  as  stiff  ? 

North.  As  to  features,  the  bridge  of  Tickler's  nose — begging 
his  pardon — is  of  too  prominent  a  build.  The  arch  reminds 
me  of  the  old  bridge  across  the  Esk  at  Musselburgh. 

Shepherd.  What  say  you  to  that,  Mr.  Tickler  ? 

North.  "  'Tis  more  an  antique  Roman  than  a —  " 

Shepherd.   Mr.  Tickler! 

North.  But  neither  is  the  nose  of  the  gentle  Shepherd  pure 
Grecian. 

Tickler.  Pure  Peebles ! 

Shepherd.  Oho  !     You've  fun'  the  use  o'  your  tongue. 

North.  Of  noses  so  extremely — 

Shepherd.  Mine's,  I  ken,  's  a  cockit  ane.     Our  mouths  ? 

North.  Why,  there,  I  must  say,  gentleman,  there's  a  wide 
opening  for — 


"  Pan  himself  7"  396 

Tickler.  Don't  blink  the  buck  teeth. 
Shepherd.  Better  than  nane  ava. 

North.  Of  Tickler's  attitude  I  should  say  generally — that 
is— 

[Here  TICKLER  reassumes  SOUTHSIDE,  and  taking  the  Snug 
gery  at  a  stride,  usurps  THE  CHAIR,  and  outstretches  him 
self  to  his  extremest  length,  with  head  leaning  on  the  ridge, 
and  his  feel  some  yards  off  on  the  fender. 

Shepherd,  (leaping  about}.  Huzzaw — huzzaw — huzzaw! — 
I've  beaten  him  at  Apollo !  Noo  for  Pan. 

[The  SHEPHERD  performs  Pan  in  a  style  that  would  have 

seduced  Pomona. 

Tickler.  Ay — that's  more  in  character. 
North.  Sufficient,  certainly,  to  frighten  an  army. 
Tickler.  The  very  picture  of  our  Popular  Devil. 
North.  Say,  rather,  with  Wordsworth — 

"  Pan  himself, 
The  simple  shepherd's  awe-inspiring  god." 

Shepherd.  Keep  your  een  on  me — keep  your  een  on  me — 
and  you'll  soon  see  a  change  that  will  strike  you  wi'  astonish 
ment.  But  rax  me  ower  the  poker,  Mr.  North — rax  me  ower 
the  poker. 

[NORTH  puts  the  poker  into  Pan's  paws,  and  imtanter  he  is 

Hercules. 

Tickler,  (clapping  his  hands).  Bravo!     Bravissimo  ! 
North.  I  had  better  remove  the  crystal.    Wheels  the  circular 
closer  to  the  hearth.      James,  remember  the  mirror. 
Tickler.  At  that  blow  dies  the  Nemean  lion. 
[The  SHEPHERD,  flinging  down  the  poker-club,  seems  to  drat/ 
up  the  carcase  of  the  Monster  with  a  prodigious  display  oj 
muscularity,  and    then  stooping  his  neck,  heaves  it   over  hu 
head,  as  into  some  profound  abyss. 
North.  Ducrow's  Double  ! 


396  North's  Impersonation 

Shepherd,  (proudly).  Say  rather  the  Dooble,  that's  Twa,  o* 
Ducraiv.  Ducraw's  nae  mair  fit  to  ack  Hercules  wi'  me,  than 
he  is  to  ack  Samson. 

Tickler.  I  believe  it. 

Shepherd.  I  could  tell  ye  a  droll  story  about  me  and  Mr. 
Ducravv.  Ae  nicht  I  got  intil  an  argument  wi'  him  at  the 
Caffee,  about  the  true  scriptral  gate  o'  ackin  the  Fear  o'  the 
Philistines,  and  I  was  pressin  him  geyan  hard  about  his 
method  o'  pu'in  doun  the  pillars,  when  he  turns  about  upon 
me — and  bein'  putten  to  his  metal — says,  "Mr.  Hogg,  why 
did  not  you  object  to  my  representing  in  one  scene — and  at 
one  time — Samson  carrying  away  the  gates  of  Gaza,  and  also 
pulling  down  the  pillars  ?  " 

North.  There  he  had  you  on  the  hip,  James. 

Shepherd.  I  hadna  a  word  to  say  for't — but  confessed  at 
ance  that  it's  just  the  way  o'  a'  critics,  wha  stumble  ower 
molehills,  and  yet  mak  naething  o'  mountains.  The  truth  is, 
that  a'  us  that  are  maisters  in  the  fine  arts,  kens  ilka  ane 
respectively  about  his  ain  airt  a  thousan'  times  mair  nor 
ony  possible  body  else — and  I  thocht  on  the  pedant  lecturin 
Hannibal  on  war,  or  ony  ither  pedant  me  on  poetry,  or  St. 
Cecilia  on  music,  or  Christopher  North  on  literatur,  or  Sir 
Isaac  Newton  on  the  stars,  or — 

North.  Now,  James,  that  you  may  not  say  that  I  ever 
sulkily  or  sullenly  refuse  to  contribute  my  quota  of  "  weel- 
timed  damn  "  to  the  Noctes — behold  me  in 

HERCULES  FURENS. 

[NORTH  off  with  his  coat  and  waistcoat  in  a  jiffy,  and  goes  to 
work. 

Shepherd.  That's  fearsome  !  Dinna  tear  your  shirt  to  rags — 
dinna  tear  your  shirt  to  rags,  sir  ! 

Tickler.  The  poison  searches  his  marrow-bones  now  ! 

Shepherd.  His  bluid's  liquid  fire ! 


Of  Hercules  Furens.  397 

Tickler.  Lava. 

Shepherd.  Linens  is  cheap  the  noo,  to  be  sure — dinna  tear 
your  shirt,  sir — dinna  tear  your  shirt.  \Vhat  pains  maun  a' 
that  shuin  *  on  the  breist  and  collar  hae  cost  Mrs.  Gentle ! 

Tickler.  O  Dejanira !  Dejanira  !  Dejanira  ! 

Shepherd.  That  out-hercules's  Hercules  !  Foamin  at  the 
mouth  like  a  mad  dowg  !  The  Epilepsy  !  The  quiverin  o' 
his  hauns !  The  whites  o'  his  een,  noo  flickerin  and  noo 
fixed  !  Oh  !  *dire  misshapen  lauchter,  drawin  his  mouth  awa 
up  alang  the  tae  side  o'  his  face,  outower  till  ane  o'  his  lugs  ! 
Puir  Son  o'  Alknomook ! 

Tickler.  Alcmena,  James. 

Shepherd.  A'  his  labours  are  near  an  end  noo  !  A'  the  fifty, 
if  crooded  and  crammed  intil  ane,  no  sae  terrible  as  the  last ! 
Loup — loup — loup — tummle — tummle — tummle  —  sprawl — 
sprawl — sprawl — row — row — row — roun'  about — rouri'  about 
— roun'  about — like  an  axle-tree — then  ae  sudden  streek  out 
intil  a'  his  length,  and  there  lies  he  straught,  stiff,  and  stark, 
after  the  dead-thraws,  like  a  gnarled  oak-trunk  that  had 
keept  knottin  for  a  thousan'  years. 

Tickler.  But  for  an  awkward  club-foot  too  much,  would 
I  exclaim — 

"  Cedite  Roman!  imitatores  I  Cedite  Graii.'* 

Shepherd  (raising  North  from  the  floor).  Do  you  ken,  sir, 
you  fairly  tyuck  me  in — and  I'm  a'  in  a  trummle.  It's  like 
Boaz  frichtenin  Ingleby  f  wF  his  ain  ba's. 

North.  Rather  hot  work,  my  dear  James.  I'm  beginning 
to  perspire. 

Shepherd  (feeling  North 's  forehead).  Beginnin  till  perspire  ! ! 
Never  afore,  in  this  weary  warld,  was  a  man  in  sic  an  even- 

*  Shuin — sewing. 

+  Boaz  and  Ingleby  were  one  and  the  same  racket-player. 


398  "  The  Old  Man  eloquent  "— 

doun  pour  o'  sweet !  A  perspiration-fa' !  The  same  wi'  your 
breist !  What  ?  You  couldna  hae  been  watter  had  you  stood 
after  a  thunner-plump  for  an  hour  under  a  roan. 

North.  Say  spout,  James,  roan  is  vulgar — it  is  Scotch — 
and  your  English  is  so  pure  now,  that  a  word  like  that 
grates  harshly  on  the  ear,  so  that  were  you  in  England,  you 
would  undeceive  and  alarm  the  natives.  But  let  us  recur 
to  the  subject  under  spirited  discussion  immediately  before 
Raphael's  Dream — I  mean  the  Jug. 

Shepherd.  Let  us  come  our  wa's  in  till  the  fire. 

The  Three  are  again  seated  at  "  the  wee   bit   ingle   blinking 
bonnily." 

North.  Where  were  we  ? 

Shepherd.  Ou  ay.  I  was  beginnin  to  pent  a  pictur  o'  you, 
sir,  stickin  a  speech  on  Slavery  or  Reform.  Slowly  you  rise 
— and  at  the  uprisin  o'  "  the  auld  man  eeloquent  "  hushed  is 
that  assemblage  as  sleep.  But  wide  awake  are  a'  een — as 
fixed  on  Christopher  North,  the  orator  o'  the  human  race. 

Tickler.  As  is  usual  to  say  on  such  occasions — you  might 
hear  a  pin  fall — say  a  needle,  which,  having  no  head,  falls 
lighter. 

Shepherd.  He  begins  laigh,  and  wi'  a  dimness  in  and  around 
his  een — a  kind  o'  halo,  sic  as  obscures  the  moon  afore  a 
storm.  But  sune  his  vice  gets  louder  and  louder,  musical  at 
its  tapmost  hicht,  as  the  breath  o'  a  silver  trumpet.  Action 
he  has  little  or  nane — noo  and  then  the  richt  haun  on  the 
heart,  and  the  left  arm  at  richt  angles  till  the  body — just  sae, 
— like  Mr.  Pitt's, — only  this  far  no  like  Mr.  Pitt's — for  there's 
nae  sense  in  that — no  up  and  doun  like  a  haunle  o'  a  well- 
pump.  What  reasonin  1  What  imagination !  Fancy  free  and 
fertile  as  an  auld  green  flowery  lea!  Pathos  pure  as  dew — 
and  wit  bricht  as  the  rinnin  waters,  translucent. 
"  At  touch  ethereal  o'  heaven's  fiery  rod  !  " 


—Sticks !  399 

Tickler.  Spare  his  blushes,  Shepherd,  spare  his  blushes. 

Shepherd.  Wae's  me — pity  on  him — but  I  canna  spare  his 
blushes — sae,  sir,  just  hang  doun  your  head  a  wee,  till  I 
conclude.  In  the  verra  middle  o'  a  lang  train  o'  ratiocina 
tion — (I'm  gratefu'  for  havin  gotten  through  that  word) — 
surrounded  ahint  and  afore,  and  on  a'  sides,  wi'  countless 
series  o'  syllogisms — in  the  very  central  heart  o'  a  forest  o' 
feegurs,  containin  many  a  garden  o'  flowers  o'  speech — 
within  sicht,  nay,  amaist  within  touch  o'  the  feenal  cleemax, 
at  which  the  assemblage  o'  livin  sowls  were  a'  waitin  to  break 
out  intil  thunder,  like  the  waves  o'  the  sea  impatient  for  the 
first  smiting  o'  a  storm  seen  afar  on  the  main, — at  that  verra 
crisis  and  agony  o'  his  fame,  Christopher  is  seized  wi'  a 
sudden  stupification  o'  the  head  and  a'  its  faculties,  his  brain 
whirls  dizzily  roun',  as  if  he  were  a'  at  ance  waukenin  out 
o'  a  dream,  at  the  edge  o'  a  precipice,  or  on  a  "  coign  o'  dis 
advantage,"  outside  the  battlements  o'  a  cloud-capt  tower ; 
his  eyes  get  bewildered,  his  cheeks  wax  white,  struck  seems 
his  tongue  wi'  palsy,  he  stutters — stutters — stutters — and 
'•  of  his  -stutterin  finds  no  end  "  till — HE  STICKS  ! 

Tickler.  Fast  as  a  wagon  mired  up  to  the  axle-tree,  while 
Roger,  with  the  loosened  team,  steers  his  course  back  to  the 
farm-steading,  with  arms  akimbo  on  old  Smiler's  rump. 

Shepherd.  He  fents  !  a  cry  for  cauld  spring-water — 

North  (frowning).  Hark  ye — when  devoid  of  all  proba 
bility — nay,  at  war  with  possibility — fiction  is  falsehood,  fun 
folly,  mirth  mere  maundering,  humor,  forsooth!  idiocy, 
would-be  wit  "  wersh  as  parritch  without  sau i"  James  a 
merry- Andrew,  and  the  Shepherd — sad  and  sorry  am  I  to 
say  it — a  Buffoon  ! 

Shepherd.  Haw  !  haw  !  haw  !  Oh,  man,  but  you're  angry. 
It's  aye  the  way  o't.  Them  that's  aye  tryin  ineffecktwally 
to  make  a  fule  o'  ithers,  when  the  tables  are  turned  on  them, 


4*00  A  Misunderstanding. 

gang  red- wud-stark-s  taring  mad  a'thegither,  and  scarcely 
leave  theirsels  the  likeness  o'  a  dowg.  But  forgie  me,  sir — • 
forgie  me — I  concur  wi'  you  that  the  description  was  nae- 
thing  but  a  tissue — as  you  hae  sae  ceevily  and  coortusly 
said — o'  fausehood,  folly,  maunderin  idiocy,  and  wersh 
parritch — 

Tickler.  James  a  merry-Andrew,  and  the  Shepherd  a 
Buffoon ! 

Shepherd.  Dinna  "  louse  your  tinkler  jaw,"  sir,  as  Burns 
said  o'  Charlie  Fox,  on  me,  Mr.  Tickler — for  I'll  no  thole 
frae  you  a  tithe,  Timothy,  o'  what  I'll  enjoy  frae  Mr.  North 
— an'  it's  no  twice  in  the  towmont  I  ventur  to  ca'  him 
Kit. 

North.  Next  time  you  pay  me  a  visit,  James,  at  No.  99  *— 
I'll  show  you  THE  PICTURE. 

Shepherd.  I  understaun'  you,  sir — Titian's  Venus— or  is't 
his  Danaw  yielding  to  her  yellow  Jupiter  ^victorious  in  a 
shower  o'  gold  ?  Oh  the  selfish  hizzie  ! 

North.  James,  such  subjects — 

Shepherd.  You  had  better,  sir,  no  say  anither .  syllable 
about  them — it  may  answer  verra  weel  for  an  auld  bachelor 
like  you,  sir,  to  keep  that  sort  o'  a  serawlio,  naked  limmers 
in  iles,  a  shame  to  ony  honest  canvas,  whatever  may  hae  been 
the  genius  o'  the  Penter  that  sent  them  sprawling  here  ;  but 
as  for  me,  I'm  a  married  man,  and — 

North.  My  dear  James,  you  are  under  a  gross  delusion — 

Shepherd.  It's  nae  delusion.  Nae  pictur  o'  the  sort,  na,  no 
e'en  although  ane  o'  the  greatest  o'  the  auld  Maisters,  sail 
ever  hang  on  ma  wa's — I  should  be  ashamed  to  look  the 
servant  lassies  in  the  face  when  they  come  in  to  soop  the  floor 
or  ripe  the  ribs — 

*  No.  99  Moray  Place  was  Christopher's  imaginary  residence  in  Edinburgh. 
No.  6  Gloucester  Place  was  his  real  abode. 


TJte  defence  of  Socrates.  401 

North  (rising  with  dignity).  No  picture,  sir,  shall  ever  hang 
on  my  walls,  on  which  her  eye  might  not  dwell — 

Shepherd.  Mrs.  Gentle !  A  bit  dainty  body — wi'  a'  the 
modesty,  and  without  ony  o'  the  demureness,  o'  the  Quaker 
leddie ;  and  as  for  yon  pictur  o'  her  aboon  the  brace-piece  o' 
your  Sanctum,  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence — 

North.  John  Watson  Gordon,  if  you  please,  my  dear  James. 

Shepherd.  It  has  the  face  o'  an  angel. 

North,  (sitting  down  with  dignity).  I  was  about  to  ask  you, 
James,  to  come  and  see  my  last  work — my  masterpiece — my 
chef-d'oeuvre — 

Shepherd.  The  subjeck  ? 

North.  The  Defence  of  Socrates. 

Shepherd.  A  noble  subjeck  indeed,  sir,  and  weel  adapted 
for  your  high  intellectual  and  moral  genie. 

North.  My  chief  object,  James,  has  been  to  represent  the 
character  of  Socrates.  I  have  conceived  of  that  character  as 
one  i-n  which  unshaken  strength  of  high  and  clear  Intellect — 
and  a  moral  Will  fortified  against  all  earthly  trials — sublime 
and  pure — were  both  subordinate  to  the  principle  of  Love. 

Shepherd.  Gude,  sir, — gude.     He  was  the  Freen  o'  Man. 

North.  I  felt  a  great  difficulty  in  my  art,  James — from  the 
circumstances  purely  historical — that  neither  the  figure  nor 
the  countenance  of  Socrates  were  naturally  commanding — 

Shepherd.  An'  hae  ye  conquered  it  to  your  satisfaction,  sir  ? 

North.  I  have.  Another  difficulty  met  me  too,  James,  in 
this — that  in  his  mind  there  was  a  cast  of  intellect — a  play  of 
comic  wit — inseparable  from  his  discourse — and  which  must 
not  be  forgotten  in  any  representation  of  it. 

Shepherd.  Profoond  as  true. 

North.  To  give  dignity  and  beauty  to  the  expression  of 
features,  and  a  figure  of  which  the  form  was  neither  dignified 
nor  beautiful,  was  indeed  a  severe  trial  for  the  power  of  art 


402  The  Cardinal  Motive. 

Shepherd.  An'  hae  you  conquered  it  too,  sir  ? 

North.  Most  successfully.  In  the  countenance,  therefore^ 
my  dear  James,  to  answer  to  what  I  have  assigned  as  the 
highest  principle  in  the  character,  Love,  there  is  a  prevailing 
character  of  gentleness — the  calm  of  that  unalterable  mind 
has  taken  the  appearance  of  a  celestial  serenity — an  expres 
sion  caught,  methinks,  from  the  peaceful  heart  of  the  uncloud 
ed  sky  brooding  in  love  over  rejoicing  nature. 

Shepherd.  That's  richt,  sir. 

North.  Such  expression  I  have  breathed  over  the  forehead, 
the  lips,  and  the  eyes  ;  yet  is  there  not  wanting  either  the 
grandeur,  nor  the  fire,  nor  the  power  of  intellect,  nor  the 
boldness  of  conscious  innocence. 

Shepherd.  I'll  come  and  see't,  sir,  the  morn's  inornin,*  afore 
breakfast.  Fowre  eggs. 

North.  That  one  purpose  I  have  pursued  and  fulfilled  by 
the  expression  of  all  the  Groups  in  the  piece. 

Shepherd.  Naething  in  pentin  kitlier  than  groupin. 

North.  You  behold  a  prevalent  expression  of  Love  in  the 
countenance  of  his  friends  and  followers — of  love  greater 
than  even  reverence,  admiration,  sorrow,  anxiety,  and  fear  ! 

Shepherd.  Though  doutless  a'  thae  emotions,  too,  will  be 
expressed — and  familiar  hae  they  been  to  you,  sir,  through 
the  coorse  o'  a  strangely  chequered  though  not  unhappy 
life. 

North.  Then,  too,  James,  have  I  had  to  express — and  I 
have  expressed  it — the  habitual  character  belonging  to  many 
there — besides  the  expression  of  the  moment ;  countenances 
of  generous,  loving,  open-souled  youth  ;  middle-aged  men  of 
calm  benign  aspect,  but  not  without  earnest  thought ;  and  not 
unconspicuous,  one  aged  man,  James,  almost  the  counterpart 
of  Socrates  himself,  only  without  his  high  intellectual  power, 

*  The  morn's  mornin — to-rnorrow  morning. 


Of  the  Picture.  403 

— a  face  composed,  I  may  almost  say,  of  peace,  the  only  one  of 
all  perfectly  untroubled. 

Shepherd.  That's  an  expressive  thought,  sir — and  it's 
original — that's  to  say,  it  never  occurred  to  me  afore  you 
mentioned  it. 

North.  He,  like  Socrates,  reconciled  to  that  certain  death, 
familiar  with  the  looks  of  the  near  term  of  life,  and  not  with 
out  hopes  beyond  it. 

Shepherd.  Believed  thae  sages,  think  ye,  sir,  in  the  immor 
tality  o'  the  sowl  ? 

North.  I  think,  James,  that  they  did — assuredly  Socrates. 

Shepherd.  I'm  glad  o't  for  their  sakes,  though  they  hae  a' 
been  dead  for  thousan's  o'  years. 

North.  Then,  James,  how  have  I  managed  his  judges? 

Shepherd.  Hoo  ? 

North.  In  all  their  faces,  with  many  expressions,  there  is 
one  expression — answering  to  the  predominant  disposition 
assigned  to  the  character  of  Socrates — the  expression  of 
Malignity  towards  Love. 

Shepherd.  You've  hit  it,  sir ;  you've  hit  it.  Here's  your 
health. 

North.  An  expression  of  malignity  in  some  almost  lost  on 
a  face  of  timidity,  fear,  or  awe,  in  others  blended  almost 
brutally  with  impenetrable  ignorance.* 

Shepherd.  That  comes  o'  studying  the  passions.  I  think 
but  little  noo  o'  Collins's  Odd. 

North.  Then,  James,  I  have  given  the  countenances  of  the 
people. 

Shepherd.  A  fickle  people — ever  ready  to  strike  doun 
offensive  Virtue — and  ever  as  ready  to  shed  tears  o'  over- 
actin  remorse  on  her  ashes  ! 

*  North  might  have  taken  some  hints  for  his  picture  from  Plato's  Dialogue 
of  Euthyphroii,  in  which  Socrates  describes  his  accuser,  Meletus,  as  a  person 
"  with  long  straight  hair,  a  scanty  beard,  and  a  hooked  nose." 


404  The  passions  of  the  People. 

North.  In  the  countenances  of  the  people,  James,  I  have 
laboured  long,  but  succeeded  methinks  at  last,  in  personifying 
as  it  were  the  Vices  which  drove  them  on  to  sacrifice  the 
father  of  the  city — to  dim  the  eye  and  silence  the  tongue  of 
Athens,  who  was  herself  the  soul  of  Greece. 

Shepherd.  A  gran'  idea,  sir — and  natural  as  gran' — ane  that 
could  only  visit  the  sowl  o'  a  great  Maister. 

North.  There  you  see  anger,  wrath,  rage,  hatred,  spite, 
envy,  jealousy,  exemplified  in  many  different  natures.  That 
Figure,  prominent  in  the  hardened  pride  of  intellect,  with 
his  evil  nature  scowling  through,  eyeing  Socrates  with 
malignant,  stern,  and  deadly  revenge — is  the  King  of  the 
Sophists. 

Shepherd.  About  to  re-erect  his  Throne,  as  he  hopes,  on  the 
ruins  o'  that  Natural  Theology  which  Socrates  taught  the 
heathens. 

North.  You  see,  then,  James, — you  feel  that  the  purpose 
of  the  painter  on  the  whole  picture  has  been  to  express,  as  I 
said,  his  conception  of  the  character  of  Socrates — a  various 
and  manifold  reflection  of  one  image  ;  but  the  image  itself, 
giving  the  same  due  proportion — where  Love  sits  on  the 
height  of  moral  and  intellectual  power,  and  Intellect  in  their 
triple  union,  though  strong  in  its  own  character,  is  yet 
subordinate  to  Both. 

Shepherd.  What  a  pictur  it  maun  be,  if  the  execution  be 
equal  to  the  design  ! 

North.  Many  conceptions,  my  dear  James,  troubled  my 
imagination,  before,  in  the  stedfastness  of  my  delight  in 
Love,  I  finally  fixed  upon  this — which  I  humbly  hope  the 
world  "  will  not  willing  let  die." 

Shepherd.  It's  the  same  way  wi'  poems.  They  aye  turn  out 
at  last  something  seemingly  quite  different  frae  the  origina 
tion  form, — but  it's  no  sae — for  a  spirit  o'  the  same  divine 


Waiting  for  the  Verdict.  405 

sameness  breathes  throughout,  though  ye  nae  langer  ken  the 
bit  bonny  bud  in  "  the  bricht  consummate  flower." 

North.  In  one  sketch — I  will  make  you  a  present  of  it,  my 
dear  James — 

Shepherd.  Thank  ye,  sir — thank  ye;  you're  really  ower 
kind — ower  gude  to  your  Shepherd  ;  but  dinna  forget,  sir — 
see  that  you  dinna  forget — for  you'll  pardon  me  for  hintin 
that  sometimes  promises  o'  that  sort  slip  your  memory — 

North.  In  one  sketch,  James,  I  have  represented  Socrates 
speaking — and  I  found  it  more  difficult  to  give  the  character 
of  the  principal  figure — because  the  fire  of  discourse,  of 
necessity,  gave  a  disproportionate  force  to  the  intellectual 
expression ;  while,  again,  I  found  it  easier  to  give  the  char 
acter  of  all  the  rest,  who  looked  upon  Socrates,  under  the 
power  of  his  eloquence,  simply  commanding,  with  almost  an 
undivided  expression,  in  which  individual  character  was  either 
lost  or  subdued. 

Shepherd.  Never  mind — send  me  the  Sketch. 

North.  I  will  —  and  another.  For.  again,  I  chose  that 
moment  when,  having  closed  his  defence,  Socrates  stands  look 
ing  upon  the  consulting  judges,  and  awaiting  their  decision. 

Shepherd.  Oh !  sir !  and  that  was  a  time  when  his  ain 
character,  methinks,  micht  wi'  mair  ease  be  most  beautifullj 
expressed ! 

North.  Most  true.  But  then,  the  divided  and  conflicting 
expression  of  all  the  other  figures,  some  turned  on  the  judges 
with  scrutinizing  eagerness,  to  read  the  decision  before  it  was 
on  their  lips — some  certain  of  the  result — looking  on  Socrates 
— or  on  the  judges — with  what  different  states  of  soul !  These, 
James,  I  found  difficult  indeed  to  manage,  and  to  bring  them 
all  under  the  one  expression,  which  in  that  sketch  too,  as 
in  my  large  picture,  it  was  my  aim  to  breathe  over  the 
canvas. 


406  The  Last  Discourse. 

Shepherd.  You  maun  try,  sir,  to  mak  a  feenished  pictur 
frae  that  sketch,  sir, — you  maun  indeed,  sir.  I'll  lend  it  to 
you  for  that  purpose — and  no  grudge  't  though  ye  keep  it  in 
your  ain  possession  till  next  year. 

North.  I  have  not  only  made  a  sketch  of  another  design, 
James,  but  worked  in  some  of  the  colors. 

Shepherd.  The  dead  colors  ? 

North.  No — colors  already  instinct  with  life.  I  have 
chosen  that  calmer  time,  when,  after  the  pronouncing  of  the 
sentence,  Socrates  resumes  his  discourse — you  may  read  it, 
James,  in  that  divine  dialogue  of  Plato  * — 

Shepherd.   But  I'm  no  great  haun  at  the  Greek. 

North.  Use  Floyer  Sydenham's  translation,  or — let  me  see 
— has  he  done  that  dialogue  ?  Take,  then,  that  noble  old 
man's,  Taylor  of  Norwich.  Socrates  resumes  his  discourse, 
and  declares  his  satisfaction  in  death,  and  his  trust  in  immor 
tality.  A  moment,  indeed,  for  the  sublime  in  art,  but  afford 
ing  to  the  painter  opportunity  for  a  different  purpose  from 
that  which  was  mine  in  my  great  picture.  For  in  this  sketch, 
instead  of  intending,  as  my  principal  and  paramount  object, 
the  representation  of  individual  historical  character — I  have 
designed  to  express — rather — the  Power  among  men  of  the 
sublime  Spirit  of  their  being — exemplified  among  a  people 
dark  with  idolatry — using  the  historical  subject  as  subser 
vient  to  this  my  purpose — inasmuch  as  it  shows  a  single 
mind  raised  up  by  the  force  of  this  feeling  above  nature 
— yea,  shows  the  power  of  that  feeling  within  that  one 
mind,  resting  in  awe  upon  a  great  multitude  of  men.  For, 
surely,  my  dear  James,  it  is  not  to  be  believed  that  at 
that  moment  one  countenance  would  preserve  unchanged 
*ts  bitter  hostility,  when  revenge  was  in  part  defeated  by 
seeing  triumph  arise  out  of  doom — when  malignant  hate 

*  The  Phatdon. 


Shepherd  kneela  407 

had  got  its  victim — and  when  murder,  that  had  struck  its 
blow,  might  begin  to  feel  its  heart  open  to  the  terror  of 
remorse. 

Shepherd.  My  dear  Mr.  North,  gie  me  baith  your  twa 
hauns.  That's  richt.  Noo  that  I  hae  shucken,  and  noo  that 
I  hae  squozen  them  in  my  ain  twa  nieves  no  unlike  a  vice, 
though  you're  no  the  king  upon  the  throne,  wi'  a  golden 
croon  on  his  head,  and  a  sceptre  in  his  haun — that's  King 
William  the  Fourth,  God  bless  him — yet  you  are  a  king  ; 
and,  as  a  loyal  subject,  loyal  but  no  servile,  for  never  was  a 
slave  born  i'  the  Forest,  here  do  I,  James  Hogg,  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd,  kneel  doun  on  ae  knee — thus — and  kiss  the  richt 
haun  o'  King  Kit. 

[The  SHEPHERD  drops  on  his  knee — does  as  he  says,  in  spite  of 
NORTH'S  struggles  to  hinder  him  —  rises — wipes  the  dust 
from  his  pans — and  resumes  his  seat. 

North.  "  How  many  of  my  poorest  subjects,"  James,  "  are 
now  asleep  !  "  Look  at  Tickler. 

Tickler.  Asleep  !  Broad-awake  as  the  Baltic  in  a  blast. 
But  when  under  the  power  of  Eloquence,  I  always  sit  with 
my  eyes  shut. 

Shepherd.  But  what  for  snore  ?  Hae  ye  nae  mercy  on  the 
sick  man  through  the  partition  ? 

North.  After  Painting,  let  us  have  some  Politics. 

Shepherd.  Na — na — na — na — na  !  Come,  Mr.  Tickler,  gie's 
a  sang — to  the  fiddle.  See  hoo  your  Cremona  is  smilm  on 
you  to  haunle  her  frae  her  peg. 

[The    SHEPHERD  takes  down  the   celebrated    Cremona  from 
the  wall,  and,  after  tuning  it,  gives  it  to  TICKLER. 

Tickler  (attempting  a  prelude).  Shade  of  Stabilirii !  heard'st 
thou  ever  grated  such  harsh  discord  as  this  ?  'Tis  like  a 
litter  of  pigs.  [TICKLER  tunes  his  instrument. 

Shepherd.  Oh,  for  Geordie  Cruckshanks  !     "  TICKLER  AT 


408  Roasted  Groose. 

THE  TUNING  !  "  What  for,  Mr.  North,  dinna  ye  get  Geordie 
to  invent  a  series  o'  Illustrations  o'  the  Noctes,  and  publish 
a  Selection  in  four  volumms  octawvo  ? 

North.  Wait,  James,  till  "  one  with  moderate  haste  might 
count  a  HUNDRED." 

Shepherd.  What  if  we're  a'  dead  ? 

North.  The  world  will  go  on  without  us. 

Shepherd.  Ay — but  never  sae  weel  again.  The  verra  earth 
will  feel  a  dirl  at  her  heart,  and  pause  for  a  moment  pen 
sively  oi\  her  ain  axis. 

(TICKLER  sings  to  an  accompaniment  of  his  own  composition 
for  the  Cremona,  "Demos.") 

Shepherd.  Soun'  doctrine  weel  sung.  (A  pause.)  Do  you 
ken,  sir,  that  I  admire  guses — tame  guses — far  mair  nor 
wild  anes.  A  wild  guse,  to  be  sure,  is  no  bad  eatin,  shot  in 
season— out  o'  season,  and  after  a  lang  flicht,  what  is  he  but 
a  rickle  o'  banes  ?  But  a  tame  guse,  aff  the  stubble,  sirs 
— (and  what'n  a  hairst  this  'ill  be  for  guses,  the  stooks  hae 
been  sae  sair  shucken  !) — roasted  afore  a  clear  fire  to  the 
swirl  o'  a  worsted  string — stuffed  as  fu's  he  can  haud  frae 
neck  to  doup  wi'  yerbs — and  devoured  wi'  about  equal  pro 
portions  o'  mashed  potawtoes  and  a  clash  o'  aipple-sass — 
the  creeshy  breist  o'  him  shinin  outower  a'  its  braid  beautifu' 
rotundity,  wi'  a  broonish  and  a  yellowish  licht,  seemin  to  be 
the  verra  concentrated  essence  o'  tastefu'  sappiness,  the  bare 
idea  o'  which,  at  ony  distance  o'  time  and  place,  brings  a 
gush  o'  water  out  o'  the  pallet — his  theeghs  slightly  crisped 
by  the  smokeless  fire  to  the  preceese  pint  best  fitted  for 
crunchin — and,  in  short,  the  toot-an-sammal  o'  the  Bird  a 
perfeck  specimen  o'  the  beau-ideal  o'  the  true  Bird  o'  Para- 
<3ise) — for  sic  a  guse,  sir, — (but  oh  !  may  I  never  be  sair  sairly 
tempted) — wad  a  man  sell  his  kintra  or  his  conscience — arid 
neist  day  strive  to  stifle  his  remorse  bygobblin  up  the  giblet-pie. 


Is  discussed.  409 

North.  To  hear  you  speak,  James,  the  world  would  take 
you  for  an  epicure  and  glutton,  who  bowed  down  five  times 
a  day  in  fond  idolatry  before  the  belly-god.  What  a 
delusion  ! 

(Enter  PICARDY  and  Tail,  with  all  the  substantialities  of 
the  season.) 

Shepherd.  Eh  !  Eh  !  What'n  a  guse  !  Mr.  Awmrose. — 
Dinna  bring  in  a  single  ither  guse,  till  we  hae  despatched 
our  freen  at  the  head  o'  the  table. — Mr.  Tickler,  whare  'ill  ye 
sit  ?  and  what  'ill  ye  eat  ?  and  what  'ill  ye  drink  ?  and  what 
'ill  ye  want  to  hear  ?  and  what  'ill  ye  want  to  say  ?  For  oh, 
sir  !  you've  been  pleesant  the  nicht — in  ane  o'  your  lown, 
but  no  seelent  humors.  [The  Three  tackle  to. 


XXIV. 

IN  WHICH,  IN  THE  RACE  FROM  THE  SALOON  TO  THE 
SNUGGERY,  TICKLER  AND  THE  SHEPHERD  ARE 
DISTANCED  BY  NORTH. 

Scene, — the  Snuggery.     Time, — Five  o'Clock.     Actors, — NORTH, 
TICKLER,  and  the  SHEPHERD.     Occupation, — Dinner. 

Shepherd.  What'n  a  bill  o'  fare !  As  lang's  ma  airm  was 
the  slip  o'  paper  endorsed  wi'  the  vawrious  eatems,*  and  I 
was  feared  there  micht  be  delusion  in  the  promise ;  but  here, 
far  ayont  a'  hope,  and  aboon  the  wildest  flichts  o'  fancy,  the 
realization  o'  the  Feast ! 

North.  Mine  host  has  absolutely  outdone  to-day  all  his 
former  outdoings.  You  have  indeed,  sir. 

Ambrose.  You  make  me  too  happy,  sir. 

Shepherd.  Say  ower  proud,  Picardy. 

Ambrose.  Pride  was  not  made  for  man,  Mr.  Hogg. — Mr. 
North,  I  trust,  will  forgive  me,  if  I  have  been  too  bold. 

Shepherd.  Nor  woman  neither.  Never  mind  him  ;  I  forgie 
you,  and  that's  aneuch.  You've  made  a  maist  excellent 
observe. 

Tickler.  Outambrosed  Ambrose,  by  this  regal  regale ! 

Shepherd.  I  ken  nae  mair  impressive  situation  for  a  human 
being  to  find  himsel  placed  in,  than  in  juxtaposition  wi'  a 
mony-dished  deuner  afore  the  covers  hae  been  removed.  The 

*  Eatems — items. 
410 


Anticipations.  411 

sowl  sets  itself  at  wark  wi'  a'  its  faculties,  to  form  definite 
conceptions  o'  the  infinite  vareeities  o'  veeands  on  the  eve 
o'  being  brocht  to  licht.  Can  this,  it  asks  itsel  in  a  laigh 
vice — can  this  dish,  in  the  immediate  vicinity,  be,  do  ye 
think,  a  roasted  fillet  o'  veal,  sae  broon  and  buttery  on  the 
outside,  wi'  its  crisp  faulds  o'  fat,  and  sae  white  and  sappy 
wi'  its  firm  breadth  o'  lean  in  the  in  ?  Frae  its  position,  I 
jalouse  *  that  ashet  can  conteen  nothing  less  than  a  turkey — 
and  I  could  risk  my  salvation  on't,  that  while  yon's  West- 
phally  ham  on  the  tae  side,  yon's  twa  how-towdies  on  the 
ither.  Can  you — 

Tickler.  No  man  should  speak  with  his  mouth  full. 

Shepherd.  Nor  his  head  empty.  But  you're  mistaken  if 
you  mean  me,  Mr.  Tickler,  for  ma  mouth  was  at  no  period  o' 
ma  late  discourse  aboon  half  fu',  as  I  was  carefu'  aye  to 
keep  swallowing  as  I  went  alang,  and  I  dinna  believe  you 
could  discern  ony  difference  in  ma  utterance.  But,  besides, 
I  even-doun  deny  the  propriety,  as  weel's  the  applicability,  o' 
the  apothegm.  To  enact  that  nae  man  shall  speak  during 
denner  wi'  his  mouth  fu',  is  about  as  reasonable  as  to  pass  a 
law  that  nae  man,  afore  or  after  denner,  shall  speak  wi'  his 
mouth  empty.  Some  feeble  folk,  I  ken,  hae  a  horror  o'  doin 
twa  things  at  ance  ;  but  I  like  to  do  a  score,  provided  they 
be  in  natur  no  only  compatible  but  congenial. 

Tickler.  And  who,  pray,  is  to  be  the  judge  of  that  ? 

Shepherd.  Mysel !  Every  man  in  this  warld  maun  judge 
for  himsel  ;  and  on  nae  account  whatsomever  suffer  ony  ither 
loon  to  judge  for  him,  itherwise  he'll  gang  to  the  deevil  at  a 
haun-canter. 

North.  Nobody  follows  that  rule  more  inviolably  than 
Tickler. 

Shepherd.  In  the  body,  frae  the  tie  o'  his  crawvat  a'  the 

*  Jalouse — suspect. 


412  The  Covers  are  lifted. 

way  doun  to  that  o'  his  shoon — in  the  sowl,  frae  the  lightest 
surmise  about  a  passing  cloud  on  a  showery  day,  to  his  maist 
awfu'  thochts  about  a  future  state,  when  his  "  extravagant 
and  erring  spirit  hies  "  intil  the  verra  bosom  o'  eternity. 

Tickler.    James,  a  caulker. 

Shepherd.  Thank  ye,  sir,  wi'  a'  my  wull.  That's  prime. 
Pure  speerit.  Unchristened.  Sma'  stell.  Gran'  worm. 
Peat-reek.  Glenlivet.  Ferintosh.  It  wad  argue  that  a  man's 
heart  wasna  in  the  richt  place,  were  he  no,  by  pronouncin 
some  bit  affectionate  epithet,  to  pay  his  debt  o'  gratitude  to 
sic  a  caulker. 

North.  James,  resume. 

Shepherd.  Suppose  me,  sir,  surveying  the  scene,  like  Moses 
frae  the  tap  o'  Pisgah  the  Promised  Land.  There  was  a 
morning  mist,  and  Moses  stood  awhile  in  imagination.  But 
soon,  sun-smitten,  burst  upon  his  vision  through  the  trans 
lucent  ether  the  region  that  flowed  with  milk  and  honey — 
while  sighed  nae  mair  the  children  o'  Israel  for  the  flesh-pats 
o'  Egypt.  Just  sae,  sirs,  at  the  uplifting  o'  the  covers,  flashed 
the  noo  *  on  our  een  the  sudden  revelation  o'  this  lang- 
expected  denner.  Howsimultawneous  the  muvement!  As 
if  they  had  been  a'  but  ae  man,  a  Briareus,  like  a  waff  o' 
lichtnin  gaed  the  hauns  o'  Picardy,  and  Mon.  Cadet,  and 
King  Pepin,  and  Sir  Dawvid  Gam,  and  Tappytoorie,  and  the 
Pech,  and  the  Hoi  Polloi ,  and,  lo  and  behold  !  towerin 
tureens  and  forest-like  epergnes,  overshadowing  the  humbler 
warld  o'  ashets  !  Let  nae  man  pretend  after  this  to  tell  me 
the  difference  atween  the  Beautifu'  and  the  Shooblime. 

North.  To  him  who  should  assert  the  distinction  I  would 
simply  say,  "  Look  at  that  Round  !  " 

Shepherd.  Ay,  he  wad  fin'  some  diffieeculty  in  swallowin 
that,  sir.  The  fack  is,  that  the  mawgic  o'  that  Buttock  o' 

*  The  noo  (the  now)— at  this  moment. 


Epicures  and  G-luttons.  413 

Beef  considered  as  an  objeck  o'  intellectual  and  moral  Taste, 
lies  in — Harmony.  It  reminds  you  o'  that  fine  line  in  Byron, 
which  beyond  a'  doubt  was  originally  inspired  by  sic  anither 
objeck,  though  afterwards  differently  applied  : — 

"  The  soul,  the  music  breathing  from  that  face  ! " 

Tickler.  Profanation  ! 

Shepherd.  What !  is  there  ony  profanation  in  the  applica 
tion  o'  the  principles  and  practice  o'  poetry  to  the  common 
purposes  o'  life  ?  Fancy  and  Imagination,  sirs,  can  add  an 
inch  o'  fat  to  round  or  sirloin,  while  at  the  same  time  they  sae 
etherealeese  its  substance,  that  you  can  indulge  to  the  suppos- 
able  utmost  in  greediness,  without  subjectin  yoursel,  in  your 
ain  conscience,  to  the  charge  o'  grossness — ony  mair  than  did 
Adam  or  Eve  when  dining  upon  aipples  wi'  the  angel  Raphael 
in  the  bowers  o'  Paradise.  And  Heaven  be  praised  that  has 
bestowed  on  us  three  the  gracious  gift  o'  a  sound,  steady,  but 
not  unappeasable  appeteet. 

Tickler.  North  and  I  are  Epicures — but  you,  James,  I  fear, 
are  a — 

Shepherd.  Glutton.  Be't  sae.  There's  at  least  this  comfort 
in  ma  case,  that  I  look  like  ma  meat — 

Tickler.  Which  at  present  appears  to  be  cod's  head  and 
shoulders. 

Shepherd.  Whereas,  to  look  at  you,  a  body  would  imagine 
that  you  leeved  exclusively  on  sheep's  head  and  trotters.  As 
for  you,  Mr.  North,  I  never  could  faddom  the  philosophy  o' 
your  fondness  for  soups.  For  hotch-potch  and  cockyleekie 
the  wisest  o'  men  may  hae  a  ruling  passion  ;  but  to  keep 
plowterin,  platefu'  after  platefu',  amang  broon  soup,  is  surely 
no  verra  consistent  wi'  your  character.  It's  little  better  than 
moss-water.  Speakin'  o'  cockyleekie,  the  man  was  an  atheist 
that  first  polluted  it  wi'  prunes. 


414  The  Fastidious  Tickler. 

North.  At  least  no  Christian. 

Shepherd.  Prunes  gie't  a  sickenin  sweetness,  till  it  tastes 
like  a  mouthfu'  o'  a  cockney  poem  ;  and,  scunnerin,  you 
splutter  out  the  fruit,  afraid  that  the  loathsome  lobe  is  a 
stinkin  snail. 

Tickler.  Hogg,  you  have  spoilt  my  dinner. 

Shepherd.  Then  maun  ye  be  the  slave  o'  the  senses,  sir, 
and  your  very  imagination  at  the  mercy  of  your  palat — or 
rather,  veece  versa,  the  roof  o'  your  mouth  maun  baud  the 
tenure  o'  its  taste  frae  anither  man's  fancy — a  pitiable  con 
dition — for  a  single  word  may  change  luxuries  intil  necessaries, 
and  necessaries  intil  something  no  eatable,  even  during  a 
siege. 

North.  'Tis  all  affectation  in  Tickler  this  extreme  fastidi 
ousness  and  delicacy. 

Shepherd.  I  defy  the  utmost  powers  o'  language  to  disgust 
me  wi'  a  gude  denner.  My  stamack  would  soar  superior — 

Tickler.  Mine,  too,  would  rise. 

Shepherd.  Oh,  sir,  you're  wutty  !  but  I  hate  puns. — Tickler, 
is  that  mock  ? 

Tickler.  I  believe  it  is  ;  but  the  imitation  excels  the  original, 
even  as  Byron's  Beppo  is  preferable  to  Frere's  Giants. 

Shepherd.  A'  but  the  green  fat. 

North.  Deep  must  be  the  foundation  and  strong  the  super 
structure  of  that  friendship  which  can  sustain  the  shock 
of  seeing  its  object  eating  mock-turtle  soup  from  a  plate  of 
imitation  silver— 

Shepherd.  Meaner  than  pewter,  as  is  the  soup  than  sowens. 
An  invaluable  apothegm ! 

North.  Not  that  I  belong,  James,  to  the  Silver-Fork  School.* 

Shepherd.  The  flunkeys — as  we  weel  ca'd  them,  sir — a 
contumelious  nickname,  which  that  unco  dour  and  somewhat 

Novelists  of  the  Theodore  Hook  class  had  been  thus  characterized. 


The    Wooden  Spoon.  415 

stupit  radical  in  the  Westminster  would  try  to  make  himsel 
believe  he  invented  ewer  again,  when  the  impident  plagiary 
changed  it — as  he  did  the  ither  day — into  "  Lackey." 

North.  I  merely  mean,  James,  that  at  bed  or  board  I  abhor 
all  deception. 

Shepherd.  Sae,  sir,  div  *  I.  A  plated  spoon  is  a  pitifu' 
imposition  ;  recommend  me  to  horn  ;  and  then  nane  o'  your 
egg-spoons,  or  pap-spoons  for  weans,  but  ane  about  the 
diameter  o'  my  loof,  that  when  you  put  it  weel  ben  into 
your  mouth,  gars  your  cheeks  swall,  and  your  een  shut  wi' 
satisfaction. 

Tickler.  I  should  like  to  have  your  picture,  my  dear  James, 
taken  in  that  gesture. 

North.  Finely  done  in  miniature,  by  MacLeay. 

Tickler.  No.     By  some  savage  Rosa. 

Shepherd.  A'  I  mean,  sirs,  is  sincerity  and  plain-dealing. 
"One  man,"  says  the  auld  proverb,  *'is  born  wi'  a  silver 
spoon  in  his  mouth,  and  another  wi'  a  wudden  ladle."  Noo, 
what  would  be  the  feelings  o'  the  first,  were  he  to  find  that 
fortune  had  clapt  iutiJ  his  mouth,  as  Nature  was  geein  him  to 
the  warld,  what  to  a'  appearance  was  a  silver  spoon,  and  by 
the  howdie  and  a'  the  kimmers  f  sae  denominated  accordingly, 
but  when  shown  to  Mr.  Morton  the  jeweller,  or  Messrs. 
Mackay  and  Cunninghame,  was  pronounced  plated  ?  He 
would  sigh  sair  for  the  wudden  ladle.  Indeed,  gents,  I'm  no 
sure  but  it's  better  nor  even  the  real  siller  metal.  In  the 
first  place,  it's  no  sae  apt  to  be  stown  ;  $  in  the  second,  maist 
things  taste  weel  out  o'  wud  ;  thirdly,  there's  nae  expense 
in  keepin't  clean,  whereas  siller  requires  constant  pipe-clay, 
leather,  or  flannen  ;  fourthly,  I've  seen  them  wi'  a  maist 
beautifu'  polish,  acquired  in  coorse  o'  time  by  the  simple  pro 
cess  o'  sookin  the  horn  as  it  gaed  in  and  out  o'  the  mouth  ; 

*  Div— do.  f  Kimmers— gossips.  t  Stowri— stolen. 


416  Memory  and  Intellect. 

fifthly,  there's  ten  thousand  times  mair  vareeity  in  the 
colors  ;  sixthly — 

Tickler.  Enough  in  praise  of  the  Wooden  Spoon.*  Poor 
fellow  !  I  always  pity  that  unfortunate  annual. 

Shepherd.  Unfortunate  annual !  You  canna  weel  be  fou 
already  ;  yet,  certes,  you're  beginnin  to  haver — and  indeed  I 
have  observed,  no  without  pain,  that  a  single  caulker  some- 
hoo  or  ither  superannuates  ye,  Mr.  Tickler. 

North.  James,  you  have  spoken  like  yourself  on  the  subject 
of  wooden  spoons.  'Twas  a  simple  but  sapient  homily. 
"  Worms,  madam  !  nay,  it  is."  Be  that  my  rule  of  life. 

Shepherd.  The  general  rule  admits  but  o'  ae  exception — 
Vermicelli  ?  What  that  sort  o'  soup's  composed  o'  I  never 
hae  been  able  to  form  ony  feasible  conjecture.  Aneuch  for 
me  to  ken,  on  your  authority,  Mr.  North,  that  it's  no  worms- 

North.  I  have  no  recollection  of  having  ever  given  you 
such  assurance,  James. 

Shepherd.  Your  memory,  my  dear  sir,  you'll  excuse  me  for 
metionin't,  is  no  just  what  it  used  to  be — 

North.  You  are  exceedingly  im — 

Shepherd.  Pertinent.  Pardon  me  for  takin  the  word  out 
o'  your  mouth,  sir — but  as  for  your  judgment — 

North.  I  believe  you  are  right,  my  dear  James.  The 
memory  is  but  a  poor  power  after  all — well  enough  for  the 
mind  in  youth,  when  its  business  is  to  collect  a  store  of 
ideas — 

Shepherd.  But  altogether  useless  in  auld  age,  sir,  when  the 
Intellect — 

North.  Is  Lord  Paramount — and  all  his  subjects  come 
flocking  of  their  own  accord  to  lay  themselves  in  loyality  at 
his  feet. 

Shepherd.  There  he  sits  on  his  throne,  on  his  head  a  croon, 

*  The  lowest  graduate  in  honors  at  Cambridge  is  so  called. 


In  Old  Age.  417 

and  in  his  haun  a  sceptre.  Cawm  is  his  face  as  the  sea — 
and  his  brow  like  a  snaw-white  mountain.  By  divine  right 
a  king ! 

North.   Spare  my  blushes. 

Shepherd.  I  wasna  speakin  o'  you,  sir — sae  you  ueedna 
blush.  I  was  speakin  o'  the  Abstrack  Power  o'  Intellect  per 
sonified  in  an  Eemage,  "  whose  stature  reached  the  sky,"  and 
whose  countenance,  serenely  fu'  o'  thocht,  partook  o'  the 
majestic  stillness  o'  the  region  that  is  glorified  by  the  setting 
sun. 

North.  My  dear  boy,  spare  my  blushes. 

Shepherd.  Hem.  (His  face  can  nae  mair  blush  than  the 
belly  o'  a  hen  redbreast.)  What  philosopher,  like  an  adjutant- 
general,  may  order  out  on  parawde  the  thochts  and  feelings, 
and,  strick  though  he  be  as  a  disciplinawrian,  be  obeyed  by 
that  irregular  and  aften  mutinous  Macedonian  phalanx  ? 

North.  I  confess  it  does  surprise  me  to  hear  you,  James, 
express  yourself  so  beautifully  over  haggis. 

Shepherd.  What  for  ?  What's  a  wee  haggis  but  a  big 
raggoo  ? — an'  a  big  raggoo,  but  a  wee  haggis  ?  But  will  you 
believe  me,  Mr.  Tickler,  I  was  sae  taen  up  wi'  the  natural 
sentiment,  that  I  kentna  what  was  on  my  plate. 

Tickler.  And  probably  have  no  recollection  of  having, 
within  the  last  ten  minutes,  eat  a  how-towdy. 

Shepherd.  What  the  deevil  are  you  twa  about  ?  Circum 
navigating  the  table  in  arm-chairs !  What !  Am  I  on 
wheels  too  ? 

[  The  SHEPHERD  follows  NORTH  and  TICKLER  round  the 
genial  hoard. 

North.  How  do  you  like  this  fancy,  my  dear  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Just  excessively,  sir.  It  gies  us  a  perfeck  com 
mand  o'  the  entire  table,  east  and  wast,  north  and  south; 
and  at  present,  I  calculate  that  I  am  cuttin  the  equawtor. 


418  The  Curricles. 

North.  It  relives  Mr.  Ambrose  and  his  young  gentlemen 
from  unnecessary  attendance — and,  besides,  the  exercise  is 
most  salutary  to  persons  of  our  age,  who  are  apt  to  get  fat 
and  indolent. 

Shepherd.  Fozy.  So  ye  contrive  to  rin  upon  horrals,*  halt 
ing  before  a  darling  dish,  and  then  away  on  a  voyage  o'  new 
discovery.  This  explains  the  itherwise  unaccountable  size  o' 
this  immense  circle  o'  a  table.  Safe  us  !  It  would  sit  forty  ! 
And  yet,  by  this  ingenious  contrivance,  it  is  just  about 
sufficient  size  for  us  Three.  Hae  ye  taen  out  a  pawtent  ? 

North.  No.     I  hate  monopolies. 

Shepherd.  What  !  You,  the  famous  foe  o'  Free-tredd  ! 

North.  With  our  national  debt — 

Shepherd.  Dinna  tempt  me,  sir,  to  lose  a'  patience  under  a 
treatise  on  taxes — 

North.  Well — I  won't.     But  you  admire  these  curricles  ? 

Shepherd.  Moveable  at  the  touch  o'  the  wee  finger.  Whase 
invention  ? 

North.  My  own. 

Shepherd.  You  Daedalus ! 

North.  The  principle,  James,  I  believe  is  perfect — but  I 
have  not  been  yet  able  to  get  the  construction  of  the  vehicle 
exactly  to  my  mind. 

Shepherd.  I  dinna  ken  what  mair  you  could  howp  for, 
unless  it  were  to  move  at  a  thocht.  Farewell,  sirs,  I'm  an* 
across  the  line  to  yon  pie — nae  sma'  bulk  even  at  this 
distance.  Can  it  be  pigeons  ? 

[SHEPHERD  wheels  away  south-east. 

North.  Take  your  trumpet. 

Shepherd.  That  beats  a'.  For  ilka  man  a  silver  speakin- 
trumpet!  Let's  try  mine.  (Shepherd  puts  his  trumpet  to  his 
mouth.)  Ship  ahoy  !  Ship  ahoy ! 

•  Horrali  or  whorles—very  small  wheels. 


Southside  in  Pursuit.  419 

North  (trumpet-tongued).  The  Endeavor* — bound  for — 
Shepherd.  Whist — whisht — sir. — I  beseech  you  whisht. 
Nae  drums  can  staun'  siccan  a  trumpet,  blawn  by  siccan 
lungs  (laying  down  his  trumpet}.  This  is,  indeed,  the  Pie  o' 
Pies.  I  howp  Mr.  Tickler  'ill  no  think  o'  wheelin  roun'  to 
this  quarter  o'  the  globe. 

Tickler  (on  the  trumpet).  What  sort  of  picking  have  you  got 
at  the  Antipodes,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Roar  a  little  louder — for  I'm  dull  o'  hearin.     Is 
he  speakin  o'  the  Bench  o'  Bishops  ? 

Tickler  (as  before,  but  louder).  What  pie  ? 
Shepherd.  Ay — ay. 
Tickler  (lar ghetto).  What  pie  ? 

Shepherd.      Ay — ay.     What'n   a  gran*   echo    up  in  yon 
corner ! 

[TICKLER  wheels  away  in  search  of  the  north-west  passage — 
and  on  his  approach  the  SHEPHERD  weighs  anchor  with 
the  pie,  and  keeps  beating  up  to  windivard — close-hauled — 
at  the  rate  of  eight  knots,  chased  by  SOUTSHIDE,  who  is 
seen  dropping  fast  to  leeward. 

North.  He'll  not  weather  the  point  of  Firkin.f 
Shepherd  (putting  about  under  North's  stern).  I'll  rin  for  pro 
tection  frae  the  Pirrat,t  under  the  guns  o'  the  old  Admiral — 
and  being  on  the  same  station,  I  suppose  he's  entitled  to  his 
ain  share  o'  the  prize.  Here,  my  jolly  veteran,  here's  the  Pie. 
Begin  wi'  a  couple  o'  cushats,  and  we'll  divide  atween  us 
the  croon  o'  paste  in  the  middle,  about  as  big's  the  ane  the 
King — God  bless  him — wore  at  the  coronation. 

[TICKLER  wheels  his  chair  into  the  nook  on  the  right   of  the 
chimney-piece. 

Southside,    hae   you   deserted  the  diet  ?      O  man !    you're 

*  Professor  Wilson  had  a  yacht  on  "Winder-mere  named  "  The  Endeavor." 
t  A  point  of  land  running  into  Loch  Lomond  is  so  called.  J  Pirate. 


420  Sound  the    Trumpets! 

surely  no  sulky  ?  Come  back — come  back,  I  beseech  you — 
and  let  us  shake  hauns.  It'll  never  do  for  us  true  Tories  to 
quarrel  amang  oursels  at  this  creesis.  What'n  a  triumph  to 
the  Whigs,  when  they  hear  o'  this  schism  !  Let's  a'  hae  a 
finger  in  the  pie,  and  as  the  Lord  Chancellor  said,  and  I  pre 
sume  did,  in  the  House  o'  Lords — "  on  my  bended  knees,  I 
implore  you  to  pass  this  bill !  "  * 

[The  SHEPHERD  kneels  before  TICKLER,  and  presents  to  him 
a  plateful  of  the  pie. 

Tickler  (returning  to  the  administration).  James,  we  have 
conquered,  and  we  are  reconciled. 

North.    Trumpets  !  [  Three  trumpet  cheers. 

Gurney  (rushing  in  alarm  from  the  ear  of  Dionysius). 
Gentlemen,  the  house  is  sArrounded  by  a  mob  of  at  least  fifty 
thousand  Reformers,  who  with  dreadful  hurrahs  are  shouting 
for  blood. 

Shepherd.  Fifty  thousan' !  Wha  counted  the  radical  ras 
cals  ? 

Gurney.  I  conjecture  their  numbers  from  their  noise.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  Mr.  North,  do  not  attempt  to  address  the 
mob — 

North.  Trumpets  !  [  Three  trumpet  cheers. 

Gurney  (retiring  much  abashed  into  his  ear).  Miraculous  ! 
Ambrose  (entering  with  much  emotion).  Mr.  North,  I  fear  the 
house   is  surrounded   by   the   enemies  of  the  constitution, 
demanding  the  person  of  the  Protector — 

Shepherd.  Trumpets  ! 

[Three  trumpet  cheers.    Exit  AMBROSE  in  astonishment. 

North.  Judging  from  appearances,  I  presume  dinner  is  over. 

*  Lord  Brcagham  concluded  his  speech  on  Parliamentary  Reform, 
October  7,  1831,  in  the  following  terms  : — "  I  pray  and  exhort  you  not  to 
reject  this  measure.  By  all  you  hold  most  dear — by  all  the  ties  that  bind 
every  one  of  us  to  our  common  OKler  and  our  common  country,  I  solemnly 
adjure  you,  I  warn  you,— I  implore,— yea,  on  my  bended  knees,  I  supplicate 
you— Reject  not  this  Bill." 


The  Start.  421 

Shepherd.  A'm  stawed.* 

North.  There  is  hardly  any  subject  which  we  have  not 
touched,  and  not  one  have  we  touched  which  we  did  not 
adorn. 

Shepherd.  By  subjecks  do  you  mean  dishes  ?  Certes,  we 
have  discussed  a  hantle  o'  them — some  pairtly,  and  ithers 
totally  ;  but  there's  food  on  the  brodd  yet  sufficient  for  a 
score  o'  ordinar  men — 

Tickler.  And  we  shall  have  it  served  up,  James,  to  supper. 

Shepherd.  Soun'  doctrine.     What's  faith  without  warks  ? 

North.  Now,  gentlemen,  a  fair  start.  Draw  up  on  my 
right,  James — elbow  to  elbow.  Tickler,  your  place  is  on  the 
extreme  gauche.  You  both  know  the  course.  The  hearth-rug 
of  the  snuggery's  the  goal.  All  ready  ?  Away  ! 

[The  start  is  the  most  beautiful  thing  ever  seen — and  all  Three 
at  once  make  play. 

SCENE  II. — The  Snuggery. 

Enter  NORTH  in  his  Jlying  chair,  at  the  rate  of  the  Derby  f 
beating,  by  several  lengths,  TICKLER  and  the  SHEPHERD, 
now  neck  and  neck. 

North  (pulling  up  as  soon  as  he  has  passed  the  Judges'  stand). 
Our  nags  are  pretty  much  on  a  par,  I  believe,  in  point  of  con 
dition,  but  much  depends,  in  a  short  race,  on  a  good  start, 
and  there  the  old  man  showed  his  jockeyship. 

Shepherd.  'Twas  a  fause  start,  sir — 'twas  a  fause  start — I'll 
swear  it  was  a  fause  start  till  ma  deein  day — for  I  hadna 
gotten  mysel  settled  in  the  saiddle,  till  ye  was  aff  like  a  shot, 
and  afore  I  could  get  intil  a  gallop,  you  was  half-way  across 
the  flat  o'  the  saloon. 

North.  James,  there  could  be  no  mistake.  The  signal  to 
start  was  given  by  Saturn  himself  ;  and — 

«  Stored— surfeited. 


422  Hbffff  refers  his  Claim 

Shepherd.  And  then  Tickler,  afore  me  and  him  got  to  the 
fauldin-doors,  after  some  desperate  crossin  and  jostlin,  I  alloo, 
on  baith  sides,  ran  me  clean  aff  the  coorse,  and  I  had  to  make 
a  complete  circle  in  the  bow-window  or  I  could  get  the 
head  o'  my  horse  pinted  again  in  a  richt  direction  for  winnin 
the  race.  Ca'  ye  that  fair  ?  I  shall  refer  the  haill  business 
to  the  decision  o'  the  Jockey  Club. 

North.  What  have  you  to  say,  Tickler,  in  answer  to  this 
very  serious  charge  ? 

Tickler.  Out  of  his  own  mouth,  sir,  I  convict  him  of  con 
duct  that  must  have  the  effect  of  debarring  the  Shepherd 
from  ever  again  competing  for  these  stakes. 

Shepherd.  For  what  stakes  ?  Do  you  mean  to  mainteen, 
you  brazen-faced  neerdoweel,  that  I  am  never  to  be  alloo'd 
again  to  rin  Mr.  North  frae  the  saloon  to  the  Snuggery  for 
ony  steaks  we  choose,  or  chops  either  ?  Things  'ill  hae  come 
to  a  pretty  pass,  when  it  sail  be  necessar  to  ask  your  leave 
to  start — you  blacklegs  ! 

Tickler,  He's  confessed  the  crossing  arid  jostling. 

Shepherd.  You  lee.  Wha  began't  ?  We  started  sidey-by 
sidey,  ye  see,  sir,  frae  the  rug  afore  the  fire,  where  we  was  a' 
three  drawn  up,  and  just  as  you  was  gaun  out  o'  sicht  atween 
the  pillars,  Tickler  and  me  ran  foul  o'  ane  anither  at  the  nor', 
east  end  o'  the  circular.  There  was  nae  faut  on  either  side 
there,  and  a'm  no  blamin  him,  except  for  ackwardness,  which 
was  aiblius  mutual.  As  sune's  we  had  gotten  disentangled, 
we  entered  by  look  o'  ee,  if  no  word  o'  mouth,  intil  a  social 
compact  to  rin  roun'  opposite  sides  o'  the  table — which  we 
did — and  in  proof  that  neither  of  us  had  gained  an  inch  on 
the  ither,  no  sooner  had  we  rounded  the  south-west  cape, 
than  together  came  we  wi'  sic  a  clash,  that  I  thocht  we  had 
been  baith  killed  on  the  spat.  There  was  nae  faut  on  either 
side  there,  ony  mair  than  there  had  been  at  the  nor'-east ; 


To  the  Jockey  Club.  423 

but  then  began  his  violation  o'  a'  honor ;  for  ha'in  succeeded 
in  shovin  mysel  aff,  I  was  makin  for  the  fauldin-doors — due 
west — ettlin  for  the  inside,  to  get  a  short  turn — when,  whup- 
pin  and  spurrin  like  mad,  what  does  he  do  but  charge  me 
richt  on  the  flank,  and  drive  me,  as  T  said  afore,  several  yards 
aff  the  coorse,  towards  the  bow-window,  where  I  was  neces 
sitated  to  fetch  a  circumbendibus  that  wad  hae  lost  me  the 
race  had  I  ridden  Eclipse.  Ca'  ye  that  fair  ?  But  it  was 
agreed  that  we  were  to  be  guided  by  the  law  of  Newmarket, 
sae  I'll  refer  the  haill  affair  to  the  Jockey  Club. 

Tickler.  Hear  me  for  a  moment,  sir.  True,  we  got  en 
tangled  at  the  nor'-west — most  true  at  the  sou '-west  came  we 
together  with  a  clash.  But  what  means  the  Shepherd  by 
shoving  off  ?  Why,  sir,  he  caught  hold  of  my  right  arm  as 
in  a  vice,  so  that  I  could  make  no  use  of  that  member,  while 
at  the  same  time  he  locked  me  into  his  own  rear,  and  then 
away  he  went  like  a  two-year-old,  having,  as  he  vainly 
dreamt,  the  race  in  hand  by  that  manosuvre,  so  disgraceful 
to  the  character  of  the  carpet. 

North.  If  you  please,  turf. 

Tickler.  Under  such  circumstances,  was  I  to  consider  my 
self  bound  by  laws  wbteh  he  himself  had  broken  and  reduced 
to  a  dead  letter  ?  No.  My  subsequent  conduct  he  has  accu 
rately  described  ;  off  the  course — for  we  have  a  bit  of  speed 
in  us — I  drove  him  ;  but  as  for  the  circumbendibus  in  the 
bow-window,  we  must  believe  that  on  his  own  word. 

Shepherd.  And  daur  you,  sir,  or  ony  man  breathin,  to  dout 
ma  word — 

North.  Be  calm,  gentlemen.  The  dispute  need  not  be  re 
ferred  to  the  Club  ;  for,  consider  you  were  nowhere. 

Shepherd.  Eh? 

North.  You  were  both  distanced. 

Shepherd.  Baith  distanced  !     Hoo  ?     Where's   the  post  ? 


424  The  Coalition  against  North. 

North.  The  door-post  of  the  Snuggery. 

Shepherd.  Baith  our  noses  were  through  afore  you  had  reach 
ed  the  rug.  I'll  tak  ma  Bible-oath  on't.  Werena  they,  Tickler  ? 

Tickler.  Both. 

North.  Not  a  soul  of  you  entered  this  room  for  several 
seconds  after  I  had  dismounted — 

Shepherd.  After  ye  had  dismounted  ?  Haw  !  haw  !  haw  ! 
Tickler  !  North  confesses  he  had  dismounted  afore  he  was 
weighed — and  has  thereby  lost  the  race.  Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 
hurrah !  Noo,  ours  was  a  dead  heat — so  let  us  divide  the 
stakes — 

Tickler.  With  all  my  heart ;  but  we  ran  for  the  Gold  Cup. 

Shepherd.  Eh  !  sae  we  did,  man  ;  and  yonner  it's  on  the 
sideboard — a  bonny  bit  o'  bullion.  Let's  keep  it  year  about ; 
and,  to  prevent  ony  hargle-barglin  about  it,  let  the  first  turn 
be  mine ;  oh  !  but  it'll  do  wee  Jamie's  heart  gude  to  glower 
on't  stannin  aside  the  siller  punch-bowl  I  got  frae  my  friend 

Mr. What's  the  matter  wi'  ye,  Mr.  North  ?  What  for 

sae  doun  i'  the  mouth  ?  Why  fret  sae  at  a  trifle  ? 

North.  No  honor  can  accrue  from  a  conquest  achieved  by 
a  quirk. 

Shepherd.  Nor  dishonor  frae  defeat; — then,  "prithee  why 
so  pale,  wan  lover  ?  prithee  why  so  pale  ?  " 

Tickler.  I  can  hardly  credit  my  senses  when  I  hear  an  old 
sportsman  call  that  a  quirk,  which  is  in  fact  one  of  the 
foundation-stones  of  the  law  of  Racing. 

Shepherd.  I  maun  gang  back  for  ma  shoon. 

North.  Your  shoon. 

Shepherd.  Ay,ma  shoon — I  flung  them  baith  in  Mr.  Tickler's 
face — for  which  I  noo  ask  his  pardon — when  he  ran  me  aff 
the  coorse — 

Tickler.  No  offence,  my  dear  James,  for  I  returned  the 
compliment  with  both  snuff-boxes — 


The  Dessert.  425 

North.  Oh !  ho  !  So  you  who  urge  against  me  the  objection 
of  having  dismounted  before  going  to  scale,  both  confess  that 
you  flung  away  weight  during  the  race ! 

Shepherd.  Eh  ?  Mr.  Tickler,  answer  him — 

Tickler.  Do,  James. 

Shepherd  (scratching  his  head  with  one  hand,  and  stroking  his 
chin  with  the  other).  "We've  a'  three  won,  and  we've  a'  three 
lost.  That's  the  short  and  the  lang  o't — sae  the  Cup  maun 
staun'  ower  till  anither  trial. 

North.  Let  it  be  decided  now.     From  Snuggery  to  Saloon. 

Shepherd.  What !  after  frae  Saloon  to  Snuggery  ?  That 
would  be  reversin  the  order  o'  nature.  Besides,  we 
maun  a'  three  be  unco  dry — sae  let's  turn  to,  till  the  table 
— and  see  what's  to  be  had  in  the  way  o'  drink.  What'n 
frutes  ! 

North.  These  are  Ribstons,  James — a  pleasant  apple — 

Shepherd.  And  what's  thir  ? 

North.  Golden  pippins. 

Shepherd.  Sic  jargonels !  shaped  like  peeries — and  yon 
Auchans  *  (can  they  be  ripe?)  like  taps.  And  what  ca'  je 
thae,  like  great  big  fir-cones,  wi'  outlandish-lookin  palm-tree 
leaves  archin  frae  them  wi'  an  elegance  o'  their  ain,  rouch 
though  they  seem  in  the  rin',  and  aiblins  prickly  ?  What  ca' 
ye  them  ? 

North.  Pine-apples. 

Shepherd.  I've  aften  heard  tell  o'  them — but  never  clapped 
een  on  them  afore.  And  these  are  pines  !  Oh !  but  the 
scent  is  sweet,  sweet — and  wild  as  sweet — and  as  wild  resto 
rative.  I'se  tak  some  jargonels  afterwards — but  I'll  join  you 
noo,  sir,  in  a  pair  o'  pines. 

[NORTH  fives  the  SHEPHERD  a  pine-apple. 
Hoo  are  they  eaten  ? 

*  Auchans—a  tiud  of  pear. 


426  The  Flavor  of  Pine-Apple. 

Tickler.  With  pepper,  mustard,  and  vinegar,  like  oysters, 
James. 

Shepherd.  I'm  thinkin  you  maun  be  leein. 

Tickler.  Some   people  prefer  catsup. 

Shepherd.  Haud  your  blethers.  Catchup's  gran' kitchen  * 
for  a'  kinds  o'  flesh,  fish,  and  fule,  but  for  frutes  the  rule  is 
"  sugar  or  naething," — and  if  this  pine  keep  the  taste  o' 
promise  to  the  palat,  made  by  the  scent  he  sends  through  the 
nose,  nae  extrawneous  sweetness  will  he  need,  self-sufficient 
in  his  ain  sappiness,  rich  as  the  color  o'  pinks,  in  which  it  is 

sae  savorily  enshrined. 1  never  pree'd  ony  taste  half  sae 

delicious  as  that  in  a'  ma  born  days  !  Ribstanes,  pippins, 
jargonels,  peaches,  nectrins,  currans  and  strawberries,  grapes 
and  grozets,  a'  in  ane !  The  concentrated  essence  o'  a'  ither 
frutes,  harmoneesed  by  a  peculiar  tone  o'  its  ain — till  it  melts 
in  the  mouth  like  material  music. 

North  (pouring  out  for  the  Shepherd  a  glass  of  sparkling 
champagne}.  Quick,  James — quick — ere  the  ethereal  particles 
escape  to  heaven. 

Shepherd.  You're  no  passin  aff  soddy  f  upon  me  ?  Soddy's 
ma  abhorrence — it's  sae  like  thin  soap  suds. 

North.  Fair  play's  a  jewel,  my  dear  Shepherd. 

"  From  the  vine-covered  hills  and  gay  regions  of  France—" 

Shepherd. — 

"  See  the  day-star  o'  liberty  rise." 

That  beats  ony  guseberry — and  drinks  prime  wi'  pine.  An- 
ither  glass.  And  anither.  Noo  put  aside  the  Langshanks — 
and  after  a'  this  daffin  let's  set  in  for  serious  dririkin,  thinkin, 
lookin,  and  speakin — like  three  philosophers  as  we  are — and 
still  let  our  theme  be — Human  Life. 

*  Kitchen— relish.  t  Soda  water. 


North  is  sick  of  Life.  427 

North.  James,  I  am  sick  of  life.  With  me  "  the  wine  of 
life  is  on  the  lees." 

Shepherd.  Then  drink  the  dregs  and  be  thankfu'.  As  lang's 
there's  anither  drap,  however  drumly,  in  the  bottom  o'  the 
bottle,  dinna  despair.  But  what  for  are  you  sick  o'  life  ? 
You're  no  a  verra  auld  man  yet — and  although  ye  was,  why 
mayna  an  auld  man  be  geyan  happy  ?  That's  a'  ye  can 
expeck  noo.  But  wha's  happy — think  ye — perfeckly  happy 
— on  this  side  o'  the  grave  ?  No  ane.  I  left  yestreen  wee 
Jamie — God  bless  him — greetin  as  his  heart  would  break  for 
the  death  o'  a  bit  wee  doggie  that  he  used  to  keep  playin  wi' 
on  the  knowe  mony  an  hour  when  he  ought  to  hae  been  at 
his  byuck — and  when  he  lifted  up  his  bonny  blue  een  a'  fu' 
o'  tears  to  the  skies,  after  he  had  seen  me  bury  the  puir  tyke 
in  the  garden,  I'se  warrant  he  thocht  there  was  a  sair  change 
for  the  waur  in  the  afternoon  licht — for  never  did  callant  loe 
collie  as  he  loed  Luath  ;  and  to  be  sure  he,  on  his  side,  wasna 
ungratefu' — fr>r  Luath  keepit  lichin  his  haun  till  the  verra 
last  gasp,  though  he  dee'd  of  that  cruel  distemper.  Fill  your 
glass,  sir. 

North.  I  have  been  subject  to  fits  of  blackest  melancholy 
since  I  was  a  child,  James. 

Shepherd.  An'  think  ye,  sir,  that  naebody  has  been  subjeck 
to  fits  o'  blackest  melancholy  since  they  were  a  bairn  but 
yoursel  ?  Wi'  some  it's  constitutional,  and  that's  a  hopeless 
case  ;  for  it  rins,  or  rather  stagnates,  in  the  bluid,  and  meesery 
has  been  bequeathed  frae  father  to  son,  doun  mony  dismal 
generations — nor  has  ceased  till  some  childless  suicide,  by  a 
maist  ruefu'  catastrophe,  has  closed  the  cleemax,  by  the 
unblessed  extinction  o'  the  race.  But  you,  my  dear  sir,  are 
come  o'  a  cheerfu'  kind,  and  mirth  laughed  in  the  ha's  o'  a' 
your  ancestors.  Cheer  up,  sir — cheer  up — fill  your  glass  wi' 
Madeiry — an'  nae  mair  lolly  about  fits — for  you're  gettin  fatter 


428  The  Young  and  Happy. 

an'  fatter  every  year,  and  what  you  ca'  despair  's  but  the 
dumps. 

North.  O,  mihi  praeteritos  referat  si  Jupiter  annos  ! 

Shepherd.  Ay — passion  gies  vent  to  mony  an  impious 
prayer  !  The  mair  I  meditat  on  ony  season  o'  my  life,  the 
mair  fearfu'  grows  the  thocht  o'  leevin't  ovver  again,  and  my 
sowl  recoils  alike  frae  the  bliss  and  frae  the  meesery,  as  if 
baith  alike  had  been  sae  intense  that  it  were  impossible  they 
could  be  re-endured ! 

North.  James,  I  regard  you  with  much  affection. 

Shepherd.  I  ken  you  do,  sir — and  I  repay't  three-fauld ;  but 
I  canna  thole  to  hear  you  talkin  nonsense.  What  for  are  ye 
no  drinkin  your  Madeiry  ? 

North.  How  pregnant  with  pathos  to  an  aged  man  are 
those  two  short  lines  of  Wordsworth — about  poor  Ruth ! — 

"  Ere  she  had  wept,  ere  she  had  moum'd, 
A  young  and  happy  child." 

Shepherd.  They  are  beautifu'  where  they  staun',  and  true  ; 
but  fause  in  the  abstrack,  for  the  youngest  and  happiest  child 
has  often  wept  and  mourned,  even  when  its  mither  has  been 
try  in  to  rock  it  asleep  in  its  cradle.  Think  o'  the  teethin, 
sir,  and  a'  the  colic-pains  incident  to  babbyhood  ! 

North.  "  You  speak  to  me  who  never  had  a  child." 

Shepherd.  I'm  no  sae  sure  o'  that,  sir.  Few  men  hae  leeved 
till  threescore  and  ten  without  being  faithers  ;  but  that's  no 
the  pint ;  the  pint  is  the  pleasures  and  pains  o'  childhood, 
and  hoo  nicely  they  are  balanced  to  us  poor  sons  of  a  day ! 
I  ken  naething  o'  your  childhood,  sir,  nor  o'  Mr.  Tickler's, 
except  that  in  very  early  life  you  maun  hae  been  twa  stirrin 
gentlemen — 

Tickler.  I  have  heard  my  mother  say  that  I  was  a  remark 
ably  mild  child  till  about — 

Shepherd.  Six — when  it  cost  your  faither  an  income  for 


Childhood  of  Tickler.  429 

tawse  to  skelp  out  o'  you  the  innate  ferocity  that  began  to 
break  upon  you  like  a  rash  alang  wi'  the  measles — 

Tickler.  It  is  somewhat  singular,  James,  that  I  never  have 
had  measles — nor  small  pox — nor  hooping-cough — nor  scarlet- 
fever — nor — 

Shepherd.  There's  a  braw  time  comin,  for  these  are  com- 
plents  nane  escape ;  and  I  shouldna  be  surprised  to  see  you 
at  next  Noctes  wi'  them  a'  fowre — a'  spotted  and  blotched,  as 
red  as  an  Indian  or  a  tile-roof,  and  crawin  like  a  cock,  in  a 
fearsome  manner — to  which  add  the  Asiatic  cholera,  and 
then,  ma  man,  I  wadna  be  in  your  shoon  for  the  free  gift  o' 
the  best  o'  the  Duke's  store-farms,  wi'  a'  the  plenishin — for 
the  fifth  comin  on  the  ither  fowre,  lang  as  you  are,  wad  cut 
you  aff  like  a  cucumber. 

North. — 

"  Ah,  happy  hills  !  ah,  pleasing  shade  I 
Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain  ! 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  stray'd, 
A  stranger  yet  to  pain." 

Shepherd.  That's  Gray — and  Gray  was  the  best  poet  that 
ever  belanged  to  a  college — but — 

North.  All  great  (except  one)  and  most  good  poets  have 
belonged  to  colleges. 

Shepherd.  Humph.  But  a  line  comes  soon  after  that  is  the 
key  to  that  stanza — 

"  My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe  !  " 

Gray  wasna  an  auld  man — far  frae  it — when  he  wrote  that 
beautifu'  Odd — but  he  was  fu'  o'  sensibility  and  genius — and 
after  a  lapse  o'  years,  when  he  beheld  again  the  bits  o'  bricht 
aiid  bauld  leevin  eemages  glancin  athwart  the  green — a'  the 
Eton  College  callants  in  full  cry — his  heart  amaist  dee'd 
within  him  at  the  sicht  and  the  soun' — for  his  pulse,  as  he 


430  The  Joy  of  Grief! 

put  his  finger  to  his  wrist,  beat  fent  and  intermittent  in  com 
parison,  and  nae  wunner  that  he  should  fa'  intil  a  dooble 
delusion  about  their  happiness  and  his  ain  meesery.  And 
sae  the  poem's  colored  throughout  wi'  a  pensive  spirit  o' 
regret,  in  some  places  wi'  the  gloom  o'  melancholy,  and  in 
ane  or  twa  amaist  black  wi'  despair.  It's  a  fine  picture  o' 
passion,  sir,  and  true  to  nature  in  every  touch.  Yet  frae 
beginnin  to  end,  in  the  eye  o'  reason,  and  faith,  and  religion, 
it's  a'  ae  lee.  Fause,  surely,  a'  thae  forebodings  o'  a  fatal 
futurity.  For  love,  joy,  and  bliss  are  not  banished  frae  this 
life ;  and  in  writin  that  verra  poem,  maunna  the  state  o' 
Gray's  sowl  hae  been  itsel  divine  ? 

North.  Tickler? 

Tickler.  Good. 

Shepherd.  What  are  mony    o'  the  pleasures  o'  memory,  sirs, 
but  the  pains  o'  the  past  spiritualeezed  ? 

North.  Tickler? 

Tickler.  True. 

Shepherd.  A'  human  feelings  seem  somehow  or  ither  to 
partake  o'  the  same  character,  when  the  objects  that  awake 
them  have  withdrawn  far,  far  awa  intil  the  dim  distance,  or 
disappeared  for  ever  in  the  dust. 

Tickler.  North? 

North.  The  Philosophy  of  Nature. 

Shepherd.  And  that  Tarn  Cawmel  maun  hae  felt,  when  he 
wrote  that  glorious  line — • 

"  And  teach  impassion'd  souls  the  joy  of  grief  !  " 

North.  The  joy  of  grief !  That  is  a  joy  known  but  to  the 
happy,  James.  The  soul  that  can  dream  of  past  sorrows  till 
they  touch  it  with  a  pensive  delight  can  be  suffering  under 
no  severe  trouble — 

Shepherd.  Perhaps  no,  sir.     But  may  that  no  aften  happen 


The  Blue  Devils.  431 

too,  when  the  heart  is  amaist  dead  to  a'  pleasure  in  the 
present,  and  loves  but  to  converse  wi'  phantoms  ?  I've  seen 
pale  still-faces  o'  widow-women, — ane  sic  is  afore  me  the  noo, 
whase  husband  was  killed  in  the  wars  lang  lang  ago  in  a 
forgotten  battle — she  leeves  on  a  sma'  pension  in  a  laigh 
and  lonely  house, — that  bespeak  constant  communion  wi' 
the  dead,  and  yet  nae  want  either  o'  a  meek  and  mournfu' 
sympathy  wi'  the  leevin,  provided  only  ye  show  them  by  the 
considerate  gentleness  o'  your  manner,  when  you  chance  to 
ca'  on  them  on  a  week-day,  or  meet  them  at  the  kirk  on 
Sabbath,  that  you  ken  something  o'  their  history,  and  hae  a 
Christian  feelin  for  their  uncomplainin  affliction.  Surely, 
sir,  at  times,  when  some  tender  gleam  o'  memory  glides  like 
moonlight  across  their  path,  and  reveals  in  the  hush  some 
ineffable  eemage  o'  what  was  lovely  and  beloved  o'  yore, 
when  they  were,  as  they  thocht,  perfectly  happy,  although 
the  heart  kens  weel  that  'tis  but  an  eemage,  and  nae  mair — 
yet  still  it  maun  be  blest ;  and  let  the  tears  drap  as  they  will 
on  the  faded  cheek,  I  should  say  the  puir  desolate  cretur  did 
in  that  strange  fit  o'  passion  suffer  the  joy  o'  grief. 

North.  You  will  forgive  me,  James,  when  I  confess,  that 
though  I  enjoyed  just  now  the  sound  of  your  voice,  which 
seemed  to  me  more  than  usually  pleasant,  with  a  trembling 
tone  of  the  pathetic,  I  did  not  catch  the  sense  of  your 
speech. 

Shepherd.  I  wasna  makin  a  speech,  sir — only  uttering  a  sort 
o'  sentiment  that  has  already  evaporated  clean  out  o'  mind 
or  passed  awa  like  an  uncertain  shadow. 

North.  Misery  is  selfish,  James — and  I  have  lost  almost  all 
sympathy  with  my  fellow-creatures,  alike  in  their  joys  and 
their  sorrows. 

Shepherd.  Come,  come,  sir — cheer  up,  cheer  up.  It's  nae- 
thing  but  the  blue  devils. 


432  The  Blue  Devils. 

North.  All  dead — one  after  another — the  friends  in  whom 
lay  the  light  and  might  of  my  life — and  memory's  self  is 
faithless  now  to  the  "  old  familiar  faces."  Eyes — brows — 
lips — smiles — voices — all — all  forgotten  !  Pitiable,  indeed, 
is  old  age,  when  love  itself  grows  feeble  in  the  heart,  and  yet 
the  dotard  is  still  conscious  that  he  is  day  by  day  letting 
some  sacred  remembrance  slip  for  ever  from  him  that  he  once 
cherished  devoutly  in  his  heart's  core,  and  feels  that  mental 
decay  alone  is  fast  delivering  them  all  up  to  oblivion ! 

Shepherd.  Sittin  wi'  rheumy  een,  mumblin  wi'  his  mouth 
on  his  breist,  and  no  kennin  frae  ither  weans  his  grandchil 
dren,  wha  have  come  to  visit  him  wi'  their  mother,  his  ain 
bricht  and  beautifu'  dauchter,  wha  seems  to  him  a  stranger 
passing  alang  the  street. 

North.  What  said  you,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Naething,  sir,  naethiiig.  I  wasna  speakin  o'  you 
— but  o'  anither  man. 

North.  They  who  knew  me — and  loved  me — and  honored 
me — and  admired  me — for  why  fear  to  use  that  word,  now 
to  me  charmless? — all  dust!  What  are  a  thousand  kind 
acquaintances,  James,  to  him  who  has  buried  all  the  few 
friends  of  'his  soul — all  the  few — one — two — three — but 
powerful  as  a  whole  army  to  guard  the  holiest  recesses  of 
life! 

Shepherd.  An'  am  I  accounted  but  a  kind  acquaintance  and 
nae  mair  ?  I  wha — 

North.  What  have  I  said  to  hurt  you,  my  dear  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Never  mind,  sir — never  mind.  I'll  try  to  forget 
it — but — 

North.  Stir  the  fire,  James — and  give  a  slight  touch  to 
that  lamp. 

Shepherd  There's  a  bleeze,  sir,  at  ae  blast.  An'  there's 
the  Orrery,  bricht  as  the  nicht  in  Homer's  Iliad,  about  which 


The  Salmon  Medal.  433 

you  wrote  sic  eloquent  havers.  And  there's  your  bumper- 
glass.  Noo,  sir,  be  candid,  and  tell  me  gif  you  dinna  think 
that  you've  been  a  verra  great  fule  ? 

North.  I  believe  I  have,  my  dear  James.  But,  by  all  that 
is  ludicrous  here  below,  look  at  Tickler  !  [  Tickler  sleeps 

Shepherd.  Oh  for  Cruckshank! 

North.  By  the  bye,  James,  who  won  the  salmon  medal  this 
season  on  the  Tweed  ? 

Shepherd.  Wha,  think  ye,  could  it  be,  ye  coof,  but  mysel  ? 
I  bet  them  a'  by  twa  stane  wecht.  Oh,  Mr.  North,  but  it 
wad  hae  done  your  heart  gude  to  hae  daunered  alang  the 
banks  wi'  me  on  the  25th,  and  seen  the  slauchter.  At  the 
third  thraw  the  snout  o'  a  famous  fish  sookit  in  ma  flee — and 
for  some  seconds  keepit  stedfast  in  a  sort  o'  eddy  that  gaed 
sullenly  swirlin  at  the  tail  o'  yon  pool — I  needna  name't — for 
the  river  had  risen  just  to  the  proper  pint,  and  was  black  as 
ink,  except  when  noo  and  then  the  sun  struggled  out  frae 
atween  the  clud-chinks,  and  then  the  water  was  purple  as 
heather-moss  in  the  season  of  blaeberries.  But  that  verra 
instant  the  flee  began  to  bite  him  on  the  tongue,  for  by  a 
jerk  o'  the  wrist  I  had  slightly  gien  him  the  butt — and  sun 
beam  never  swifter  shot  frae  Heaven,  than  shot  that  saumon- 
beam  down  intil  and  out  o'  the  pool  below,  and  alang  the 
saugh-shallows  or  you  come  to  Juniper  Bank.  Clap — clap — 
clap — at  the  same  instant  played  a  couple  o'  cushats  frae  an 
aik  aboon  my  head,  at  the  purr  o'  the  pirn,  that  let  out  in  a 
twinkling  a  hunner  yards  o'  Mr.  Phin's  best,  strang  aneuch 
to  haud  a  bill  or  a  rhinoceros. 

North.  Incomparable  tackle ! 

Shepherd.  Far,  far  awa  doun  the  flood,  see  till  him,  sir- 
see  till  him, — loup-loup-loupin  intil  the  air,  describin  in 
the  spray  the  rinnin  rainbows  !  Scarcely  could  I  believe,  at 
sic  a  distance,  that  he  was  the  same  fish.  He  seemed  a 


434  Hogg  in  his  Cork-Jacket 

saumon  divertin  himsel,  without  ony  connection  in  this 
warld  wi'  the  Shepherd.  But  we  were  linked  thegither,  sir, 
by  the  inveesible  gut  o'  destiny — and  I  chasteesed  him  in 
his  pastime  wi'  the  rod  o'  affliction.  Windin  up — windin  up, 
faster  than  ever  ye  grunded  coffee — I  keepit  closin  in  upon 
him,  till  the  whalebone  was  amaist  perpendicular  outower 
him,  as  he  stoppit  to  tak  breath  in  a  deep  plum.  You  see 
the  savage  had  gotten  sulky,  and  you  micht  as  weel  hae 
rugged  at  a  rock.  Hoo  I  leuch  !  Easin  the  line  ever  so 
little,  till  it  just  moved  slichtly  like  gossamer  in  a  breath  o' 
wund — I  half  persuaded  him  that  he  had  gotten  aff ;  but  na, 
na,  ma  man,  ye  ken  little  about  the  Kirby-bends  gin  ye 
think  the  peacock's  harl  and  the  tinsy  hae  slipped  frae  your 
jaws  !  Snoovin  up  the  stream,  he  goes  hither  and  thither, 
but  still  keepin  weel  in  the  middle — and  noo  strecht  and 
steddy  as  a  bridegroom  ridin  to  the  kirk. 

North.  An  original  image. 

Shepherd.  Say  rather  application  !  Maist  majestic,  sir, 
you'll  alloo,  is  that  flicht  o'  a  fish  when  the  line  cuts  the 
surface  without  commotion,  and  you  micht  imagine  that 
he  was  sailin  unseen  below  in  the  style  o'  an  eagle  about  to 
fauld  his  wings  on  the  cliff. 

North.  Tak  tent,  James.     Be  wary,  or  he  will  escape. 

Shepherd.  Never  fear,  sir.  He'll  no  pit  me  aff  my  guard 
by  keepin  the  croon  o'  the  causey  in  that  gate.  I  ken  what 
he's  ettlin  at — and  it's  naething  mair  nor  less  nor  yon  island. 
Thinks  he  to  himsel,  wi'  his  tail,  "  Gin  I  get  abreist  o'  the 
broom,  I'll  roun'  the  rocks,  doun  the  rapids,  and  break  the 
Shepherd."  And  nae  sooner  thocht  than  done — but  bauld  in 
my  cork -jacket — 

North.  That's  anew  appurtenance  to  your  person,  James; 
I  thought  you  had  always  angled  in  bladders. 

Shepherd.  Sae  I  used — but  last  season  they  fell  doun  to  ray 


Plays  his  Salmon.  435 

heels,  and  had  nearly  diooned  me — sae  I  trust  noo  to  my 
bodyguard. 

North.  I  prefer  the  air  life-preserver. 

Shepherd.  If  it  bursts  you're  gone.  Bauld  in  my  cork-jacket, 
I  took  till  the  soomin,  haudin  the  rod  aboon  my  head — 

North.   Like  Caesar  his  Commentaries. 

Shepherd.  And  gettin  fittin  on  the  bit  island — there's  no  a 
shrub  on't,  you  ken,  aboon  the  waistband  o'  my  breeks — I 
was  just  in  time  to  let  him  easy  ower  the  Fa',  and  Heaven 
safe  us  !  he  turned  up,  as  he  played  wallop,  a  side  like  a 
house  !  He  fand  noo  that  he  was  in  the  hauns  o'  his  maister, 
and  began  to  loss  heart ;  for  naethin  cows  the  better  pairt  o' 
man,  brute,  fool,  or  fish,  like  a  sense  o'  inferiority.  Some 
times  in  a  large  pairty  it  suddenly  strikes  me  dumb — 

North.  But  never  in  the  Snuggery,  James — never  in  the 
Sanctum — 

Shepherd.  Na,  na,  na — never  i'  the  Snuggery,  never  i'  the 
Sanctum,  my  dear  auld  man  !  For  there  we're  a'  brithers, 
and  keep  bletherin  withouten  ony  sense  o'  propriety — I  ax 
pardon — o'  inferiority — bein'  a'  on  a  level,  and  that  lichtsome, 
like  the  parallel  roads  in  Glenroy,  when  the  sunshine  pours 
upon  them  frae  the  tap  o'  Ben  Nevis. 

North.  But  we  forget  the  fish. 

Shepherd.  No  me.  I'll  remember  him  on  my  deathbed. 
In  body  the  same,  he  was  entirely  anither  fish  in  sowl.  He 
had  set  his  life  on  the  hazard  o'  a  die,  and  it  had  turned  up 
blanks.  I  began  first  to  pity,  and  then  to  despise  him — for 
f-ae  a  fish  o'  his  appearance  I  expeckit  that  nae  ack  o'  his 
life  wad  hae  sae  graced  him  as  the  closin  ane — and  I  was 
pairtly  wae  and  pairtly  wrathfu'  to  see  him  dee  soft!  Yet,  to 
do  him  justice,  it's  no  impossible  but  that  he  may  hae  druv 
his  snout  again'  a  stane,  and  got  dazed — and  we  a'  ken  by 
experience  that  there's  naething  mair  likely  to  calm  courage 


436  The  Last  Leap. 

,han  a  brainin  knock  on  the  head.  His  organ  o'  locality  had 
gotten  a  clour,  for  he  lost  a'  judgment  atween  wat  and  dry, 
and  came  fioatin,  belly  upmost,  in  amang  the  bit  snail-bucky- 
shells  on  the  sand  around  my  feet,  and  lay  there  as  still 
as  if  he  had  been  gutted  on  the  kitchen-dresser — an  enormous 
fish. 

North.  A  sumph. 

Shepherd.  No  sic  a  sumph  as  he  looked  like — and  that 
you'll  think  when  you  hear  tell  o'  the  lave  o'  the  adventure. 
Bein'  rather  out  o'  wund,  I  sits  doun  on  a  stane,  and  was 
wipin  ma  broos,  wi1  ma  een  fixed  upon  the  prey,  when  a'  on 
a  sudden,  as  if  he  had  been  galvaneesed,  he  stotted  up  intil 
the  lift,  and  wi'  ae  squash  played  plunge  into  the  pool,  and 
awa  doun  the  eddies  like  a  porpus.  I  thocht  I  should  hae 
gane  mad,  Heaven  forgie  me — and  I  fear  I  swore  like  a 
trooper.  Loupin  wi'  a  spang  frae  the  stane,  I  missed  ma  feet, 
and  gaed  head-ower-heels  intil  the  water — while  amang  the 
rushin  o'  the  element  I  heard  roars  o'  lauchter  as  if  frae  the 
kelpie  himsel,  but  what  afterwards  turned  out  to  be  guffaws 
frae  yourfriens  Boyd  and  Juniper  Bank,*  wha  had  been  wut- 
nessin  the  drama  frae  commencement  to  catastrophe. 

North.  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  James  !  it  must  have  been  excessively 
droll. 

Shepherd.  Risin  to  the  surface  wi'  a  guller,  I  shook  ma 
nieve  at  the  neerdoweels,  and  then  doun  the  river  after  the 
sumph  o'  a  saumon,  like  a  verra  otter.  Followin  noo  the 
sicht  and  noo  the  scent,  I  wasna  lang  in  comin  up  wi'  him 
— for  he  was  as  deid  as  Dawvid — and  lyin  on  his  back,  I  pro 
test,  just  like  a  man  restin  himsel  at  the  soomin.  I  had  for 
gotten  the  gaff — so  I  fastened  ma  tooth  intil  the  shouther  o' 
him — and  like  a  Newfoundlan'  savin  a  chiel  frae  droonin,  I 


*  Messrs.  Boyd  of  Innerleithen  and  Thorburn  of  Juniper  Bank,  a  farm 
on  Tweedside. 


The  Shepherd  on  Shakespeare.  437 

bare  him  to  the  shore,  while,  to  do  Boyd  and  Juniper  justice, 
the  lift  rang  wi'  acclamations. 

North.  What  may  have  been  his  calibre  ? 

Shepherd.  On  puttin  him  intil  the  scales  at  nicht,  he  just 
turned  three  stane  tron. 

Tickler  (stretching  himself  out  to  an  incredible  extent).  Alas! 
'twas  but  a  dream  ! 

Shepherd.  Was  ye  dreamin,  sir,  o'  beio'  hanged? 

Tickler  (recovering  his  first  position).  Eh  ! 

North.  "  So  started  up  in  his  own  shape  the  Fiend."  We 
have  been  talking,  Timothy,  of  Shakespeare's  Seven  Ages. 

Tickler.  Shakespeare's  Seven  Ages. 

Shepherd.  No  Seven  Ages — but  rather  seven  characters. 
Ye  dinna  mean  to  mainteen  that  every  man,  afore  he  dees, 
maun  be  a  sodger  and  a  justice  o'  the  peace  ? 

Tickler.  Shepherd  versus  Shakespeare — Yarrow  versus 
Avon. 

Shepherd.  I  see  no  reason  why  me,  or  ony  ither  man  o' 
genius,  michtna  write  just  as  weel's  Shakspeer.  Arena  we  a' 
mortal  ?  Mony  glorious  glints  he  has,  and  surpassin  sun 
bursts — but  oh !  sirs,  his  plays  are  desperate  fu'  o'  trash — 
like  some  o'  ma  earlier  poems — 

Tickler.  The  Queen's  Wake  is  a  faultless  production. 

Shepherd.  It's  nae  sic  thing.  But  it's  nearly  about  as 
perfeck  as  ony  work  o'  human  genius  ;  whereas  Shakspeer's 
best  plays,  sic  as  Hamlet,  Lear,  and  Othello,  are  but  strang 
daubs — 

Tickler.  James — 

Shepherd.  Are  they  no,  Mr.  North  ? 

North.  Rather  so,  my  dear  Shepherd.  But  what  of  his 
Seven  Ages  ? 

Shepherd.  Nothing — except  that  they're  very  poor.  What's 
the  first? 


138  The  First 

North. — 

"  At  first  the  infant, 
Mewling  and  puking  in  its  nurse's  arms  !  " 

Shepherd.  Weel,  then,  the  verra  first  squeak  or  skirl  o*  a 
newborn  wean  in  the  house,  that,  though  little  louder  nor 
that  o'  a  rotten,  fills  the  entire  tenement  frae  grun'-wark  to 
riggin,  was  far  better  for  the  purposes  o'  poetry  than  the 
raewlin  and  pukin — for  besides  bein'  onything  but  disgustfu' 
though  sometimes,  I  alloo,  as  alarmin  as  unexpected,  it  is  the 
sound  the  young  Roscius  utters  on  his  first  appearance  on 
any  stage  ;  and  on  that  latter  account,  if  on  nae  ither,  should 
hae  been  seleckit  by  Shakspeer. 

North.  Ingenious,  James. 

Shepherd.  Or  the  moment  when  it  is  first  pitten,*  trig  as 
a  bit  burdie,  intil  its  father's  arms. 

Tickler.  A  man-child — the  imp. 

Shepherd.  Though  noo  sax  feet  fower,  you  were  then  your 
sel,  Tickler,  but  a  span  lang — little  mair  nor  the  length  o' 
your  present  nose. 

Tickler.  'Twas  a  snub. 

Shepherd.  As  weel  tell  me  that  a  pawrot,  when  it  chips  the 
shell,  has  a  strecht  neb. 

Tickler.  Or  that  a  hog  does  not  show  the  cloven  foot  till  he 
has  learnt  to  grunt. 

Shepherd.  Neither  he  does — for  he  grunts  the  instant  he's 
farrowed — like  ony  Christian — sae  you're  out  again  there, 
and  that  envenomed  shaft  o'  satire  fa's  to  the  grun'. 

North.  No  bad  blood,  gents  ! 

Shepherd.  Weel,  then — or,  when  yet  unchristened,  it  lies 
awake  in  the  creddle — and  as  its  wee  dim  een  meet  yours,  as 
you're  lookin  doun  to  kiss't,  there  comes  strangely  ower  its 
bit  fair  a  something  joyfu',  that  love  construes  intil  a  smile 

*  Pitten — put. 


Of  the  Seven  Ages.  439 

Tickler.  "  Beautiful  exceedingly."     Hem. 

Shepherd.  Or,  for  the  first  time  o'  its  life  in  lang-claes,  held 
up  in  the  hush  o'  the  kirk,  to  be  bapteesed — while 

Tickler.  The  moment  the  water  touches  its  face,  it  falls  into 
a  fit  of  fear  and  rage — 

Shepherd.  Sune  stilled,  ye  callous  carle,  in  the  bosom  o'  ane 
o'  the  bonny  lassies  sittin  on  a  furm  in  the  transe,  a'  dressed 
in  white,  wha  wi'  mony  a  silent  hushaby  lulls  the  lamb,  noo 
ane  o'  the  flock,  into  haly  sleep. 

Tickler.  Your  hand,  my  dear  James. 

Shepherd.  There.  Tak  a  gude  grup,  sir,  for  in  spite  o'  that 
sneerin,  you've  a  real  gude  heart. 

North.  This  is  the  second  or  third  time,  my  dear  James, 
that  we  have  been  cheated  by  some  chance  or  other  out  of 
your  Seven  Ages.  But  hark  !  the  timepiece  strikes  nine — 
and  we  must  away  to  the  Library.  Two  hours  for  dinner  in 
the  Saloon — two  for  wine  and  walnuts  in  the  Snuggery — then 
two  for  tea-tea  and  coffee-tea  in  the  Library — and  finally,  two 
in  the  blue-parlor  for  supper.  Such  was  the  arrangement  for 
the  evening.  So  lend  me  your  support,  my  dear  boys — we 
shall  leave  our  curricles  behind  us — and  start  pedestrians.  I 
am  the  lad  to  show  a  toe.  £  Exeunt. 


XXV. 

IN  WHICH  NORTH  ERECTS  HIS  TENT  IN  THE  FAIRY'S 
CLEUGH,AND  IS  CROWNED  KING  OF  SCOTLAND 
BY  THE  FOREST  WORTHIES. 

SCENE  I. —  Tent  in  the  Fairy's  Cleugh.  NORTH  and  the 
REGISTRAR  *  lying  on  the  brae.  (In  attendance,  AM 
BROSE  and  his  Tail.) 

Registrar.  And  here  we  are  in  the  Fairy's  Cleugh,  among 
the  mountains  of — 

North.  Peeblesshire,  Dumfriesshire,  Lanarkshire,  for  here 
all  three  counties  get  inextricably  entangled ;  yet  in  their 
pastoral  peace  they  quarrel  not  for  the  dominion  of  this  nook, 
central  in  the  hill-heart,  and  haunted  by  the  Silent  People. 

Registrar.  You  do  not  call  us  silent  people  !  Why,  you 
ouL-talka  spinning-jenny,  and  the  mill-clapper  stops  in  despair 
at  the  volubility  of  your  speech. 

North.  Elves,  Sam — Elves.     Is  it  not  the  Fairy's  Cleugh  ? 

Registrar.  And  here  have  been  "  little  feet  that  print  the 
ground."  But  1  took  them  for  those  of  hares — 

North.  These,  Sam,  are  not  worm-holes — nor  did  Mole  the 
miner  upheave  these  pretty  little  pyramids  of  primroses — for 

*  "  The  Registrar  "  was  Mr.  Samuel  Anderson,  formerly  of  the  firm  of 
Brougham  and  Anderson,  wine  merchants,  Edinburgh.  He  afterwards  ob 
tained  from  Lord  Chancellor  Brougham  (his  partner's  brother)  the  appoint 
ment  of  Registrar  of  the  Court  of  Chancery.  He  was  an  esteemed  friend 
of  Professor  Wilson's,  and  a  general  favorite  in  society.  He  died  in  1849. 
440 


North  as  a  Fairy.  441 

these,  Sam,  are  all  Fairy  palaces, — and  yonder  edifice  that 
towers  above  the  Lady-Fern — therein  now  sleeps — let  us 
speak  low,  and  disturb  her  not — the  Fairy  Queen,  waiting  for 
the  moonlight — and  soon  as  the  orb  shows  her  rim  rising 
from  behind  Birk-fell — away  to  the  ring  will  she  be  gliding 
with  all  the  ladies  of  her  Court — 

Registrar.  And  we  will  join  the  dance — Kit — 

North.  Remember — then — that  I  am  engaged  to — 

Registrar.  So  am  I — three-deep. 

North.  Do  you  know,  Sam,  that  I  dreamed  a  dream  ? 

Registrar.  You  cannot  keep  a  secret,  for  you  blab  in  your 
sleep. 

North.  Ay — both  talk  and  walk.  But  I  dreamed  that  I 
saw  a  Fairy's  funeral,  and  that  I  was  myself  a  fairy. 

Registrar.  A  warlock. 

North.  No — a  pretty  little  female  fairy  not  a  span  long. 

Registrar.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

North.  And  they  asked  me  to  sing  her  dirge,  and  then  I 
sang — for  sorrow  in  sleep,  Sam,  is  sometimes  sweeter  than 
any  joy — ineffably  sweet — and  thus  comes  back  wavering 
into  my  memory  the  elegiac  strain. 

THE   FAERY'S  BURIAL. 


Where  shall  our  sister  rest  ? 

"Where  shall  we  bury  her  ? 
To  the  grave's  silent  breast 

Soon  we  must  hurry  her  J 
Gone  is  the  beauty  now 

From  her  cold  bosom  ! 
Down  droops  her  livid  brow, 

Like  a  wan  blossom  ! 


Not  to  those  white  lips  cling 

Smiles  or  caresses  ! 
Dull  is  the  rainbow  wing, 

Dim  the  bright  tresses  ! 


442  The  Fairy  s  Burial 


Death  now  hath  claimed  his  spoil- 
Fling  the  pall  over  her  ! 

Lap  we  earth's  lightest  soil, 
Wherewith  to  cover  her  1 


Where  down  in  yonder  rale 

Lilies  are  growing, 
Mourners  the  pure  and  pale 

Sweet  tears  bestowing  ! 
Morning  and  evening  dews 

Will  they  shed  o'er  her  ; 
Each  night  their  task  renews 

How  to  deplore  her  ! 


Here  let  the  fern-grass  grow, 

With  its  green  drooping  I 
Let  the  narcissus  blow, 

O'er  the  wave  stooping  I 
Let  the  brook  wander  by, 

Mournfully  singing  ! 
Let  the  wind  murmur  nigh, 

Sad  echoes  bringing. 


And  when  the  moonbeams  shower, 

Tender  and  holy, 
Light  on  the  haunted  hour 

Which  is  ours  solely, 
Then  will  we  seek  the  spot 

Where  thou  art  sleeping, 
Holding  thee  unforgot 

With  our  long  weeping  I 


Amorose  (rushing  out  of  the  Tent).  Mr.  Tickler,  sirs,  Mr. 
Tickler !  Tender's  his  head  and  shoulders  rising  over  the 
knoll — in  continuation  of  his  herald  the  rod. 

North  (savagely).  Go  to  the  devil,  sir. 

Ambrose  ( petrified).    Ah  !    ha  !    ha  !    ah  !    si — sir — pa— 


North   (unmottified).  Go  to  the  devil,  I  say,  sir.    Are  you 
deaf? 

Ambrose  (going,  going,  gone).  I  beseech  you,Mr.  Registrar— 


North  is  admonished.  443 

North  (grimly).  "  How  like  a  fawning  publican  he  looks  !  " 

Registrar.  A  most  melancholy  example  of  a  truth  I  never 
believed  before,  that  poetical  and  human  sensibility  are  alto 
gether  distinct — nay,  perhaps  incompatible  !  North,  forgive 
me  (North  grasps  the  crutch] ;  but  you  should  be  ashamed  of 
yourself — nay,  strike,  but  hear  me  ! 

North  (smiling  after  a  sort).  Well — Themistocles. 

Registrar.  You  awaken  out  of  a  dream-dirge  of  Faery 
Land — where  you,  by  force  of  strong  imagination,  were  a 
female  fairy,  not  a  span  long — mild  as  a  musical  violet,  if 
one  might  suppose  one,  "  by  a  mossy  stone  half-hidden  from 
the  eye,"  inspired  with  speech. 

North.  1  feel  the  delicacy  of  the  compliment. 

Registrar.  Then  you  feel  something  very  different,  sir,  I 
assure  you,  from  what  I  intended,  and  still  intend,  you  shall 
feel;  for  your  treatment  of  my  friend  Mr.  Ambrose  was 
hocking. 

North.  I  declare  on  my  conscience,  I  never  saw  Ambrose  ! 

Registrar.  What !  aggravate  your  folly  by  falsehood  1 
Then  are  you  a  lost  man — and — 

North.  I  thought  it  a  stirk  staggering  in  upon  me  at  the 
close  of  a  stanza  that — 

Registrar.  And  why  did  you  say  "  sir  "  ?  Nay — nay — that 
won't  pass.  From  a  female  fairy,  not  a  span  long,  "  and  even 
the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  things,"  you  suffer  yourself  to  trans 
form  you  into  a  Fury  six  feet  high  !  and  wantonly  insult  a 
man  who  would  not  hurt  the  feelings  of  a  wasp ! 

North  (humbly).  I  hope  I  am  not  a  wasp. 

Registrar.  I  hope  not,  sir  ;  but  permit  me,  who  am  not  one 
of  your  youngest  friends,  to  say  to  you  confidentially,  that 
you  were  just  now  very  unlike  a  bee. 

North  (hiding  his  face  with  both  his  hands).  All  sting — a"nd 
no  honey.  Spare  me,  Sam. 


444  He  apologizes. 

Registrar.  I  will.  But  the  world  would  not  have  credited 
it,  had  she  heard  it  with  her  own  ears.  Are  you  aware,  sir, 
that  you  told  Mr.  Ambrose  "  to  go  to  the  devil  "  ? 

North  (agitated}.  And  has  he  gone  ? 

Registrar  (beckoning  on  Ambrose,  who  advances).  Well, 
Ambrose  ? 

North.  Ambrose  !     Do  you  forgive  me  ? 

Ambrose,  (falling  on  one  knee).  No — no — no — my  dear 
sir — my  honored  master — 

North.    Alas  !    Ambrose — I  am  not  even  master  of  myself. 

Ambrose.  It  was  all  my  fault,  sir.  I  ought  to  have  looked 
first  to  see  if  you  were  in  the  poetics.  Such  intrusion  was 
most  unpardonable — for  (smiling  and  looking  down)  shall 
mere  man  obtrude  on  the  hour  of  inspiration — when 

"  The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 
Glances  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven, 
And  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  form  of  things  unknown,  turns  them  to  shape, 
And  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 

Registrar.  Who  suffers,  Ambrose  ? 

Ambrose.  Shakespeare,  sir.  Mr.  Tickler  !  Mr.  Tickler  !  Mr. 
Tickler  !  (catching  up  his  voice)  Mr.  Tick — 

Registrar.  Yea — verily — and  'tis  no  other  ! 

Tickler  (stalking  up  the  brae — rod  in  hand — and  creel  on  his 
shoulder — with  his  head  well  laid  back— and  his  nose  pretty  per 
pendicular  with  earth  and  sky).  Well — boys — what's  the 
news  ?  And  how  are  you  off  for  soap  ?  How  long  here  ? 
Ho  !  ho  !  The  Tent. 

North.  Since  Monday  evening — and  if  my  memory  serve 
me    right,    this  is    either    Thursday  or  Friday.     Whence, 
Tim? 
*  Tickler.  From  the  West.     But  is  there  any  porter  ? 

Ambrose  (striving  to  draw).     Ay — ay — sir. 


Arrival  of  Tickler.  445 

* 
Tickler.  You  may  as  well  try  to  uproot  that  birk.     Give  it 

me. 

\JPut  the  bottle  between  his  feet — stoops — and  lays  on  his 
strength. 

Registrar  (jogging  North).    Oh  !  for  George  Cruikshank  ! 

Tickler  (loud  explosion  and  much  smoke).    The  Jug. 

Ambrose.  Here,  srr. 

Tickler  (teeming).    Brown    stout.     The  porter's   in   spate. 
THE  QUEEN  ! 

Omnes.  Hurra !  hurra !  hurra !  hurra !  hurra !  hurra !  hurra ! 
hurra !  hurra ! 

Ambrose.    Hip — hip — hip — 

Registrar.     Hush  ! 

Tickler.  Hech  !     That  draught  made  my  lugs  crack.  Oh  I 
Kit  ! — there  was  a  grand  ploy  at  Paisley. 

Ambrose.  Dinner  on  the  table,  sir, 

North.  As  my  old  friend  Crewe — the  University  Orator  at 
Oxford — concludes  his  fine  poem  of  Lewesdon  HiU 

"  To-morrow  for  severer  thought,  but  now 
To  dinner,  and  keep  festival  to-day." 

SCENE  II.— Time,— Four  tf  Clock. 

Scene  changes  to  the  interior  of  the  tent.  DINNER — Salmon — 
Turbot  —  Trout—  Cod  —  Haddocks —Whitings  —  Turkey — 
Goose — Veal-pie  —  Beaf steak  ditto  —  Chicken  —  Ham  — 
THE  ROUND— Damson,  Cherry,  Currant,  Grozet  (this  year's) 
Tarts,  £c.,  frc.,  £c., 

SCENE  III.— Time,— Five  o' Clock. 

Without  change  of  place.  DESSERT — Melons — Grapes — Grozets 
— Pine-apples —  Golden  Pippins — New  Yorkers  —  Filberts 
— Hazels.  WINES  —  Champagne —  Claret — Port — Madeira 


446  TJie  Fairy  s  Cleugh. 

—  Cold  Punch   in   the   Dolphin — GLENLIVET   IN  THE 
TOWER  OP  BABEL — Water  in  the  Well. 


North.  Ambrose,  tuck  up  the  tent- door.  Fling  it  wide 
open.  [AMBROSE  lets  in  heaven. 

Registrar.     "  Beautiful  exceedingly  !  " 

North.  Ne'er  before  was  tent  pitched  in  the  Fairy's  Cleugh  ! 
1  selected  the  spot  from  a  memory,  where  lie  many  thousand 
worlds — great  and  small — and  of  the  tiny  not  one  sweeter, 
sure,  than  this  before  our  eyes  ! 

Registrar.  I  wonder  how — by  what  fine  process — you 
chose  !  Yet  why,  might  I  ask  my  own  heart — why  now  do 
I  fix  on  one  face,  one  form,  and  see  but  them — haunted  as 
my  imagination  might  be  with  the  images  of  all  the  loveliest 
in  the  land  ? 

Tickler.  Sam  !  you  look  as  fresh  as  a  daisy. 

North.  That  is  truly  a  vista.  Those  hills — for  we  must  not 
call  them  mountains — how  gently  they  come  gliding  down 
from  the  sky,  on  each  side  of  the  vale-like  glen ! — 

Registrar.  Vale-like  glen  !  Thank  you,  North — that  is  the 
very  word. 

North. separated  but  by  no  wide  level  of  broomy 

greensward — if  that  be  a  level,  broken  as  you  see  it  with  fre 
quent  knolls — most  of  them  rounded  softly  off  into  pastures, 
some  wooded,  and  here  and  there  one  with  but  a  single,  tree, 
the  white-stemmed,  sweet-scented  birk — 

Registrar.  Always  lady -like  with  her  delicate  tresses,  how 
ever  humble  her  birth. 

North.  Should  we  say  that  the  "  spirit  of  the  scene"  is 
sylvan  or  pastoral  ? 

Registrar.  Both. 

North.  Sam  !  how  is  it  I  see  no  sheep  ? 

Registrar.  Sheep  and  lambs  there  must  be  many — latent 


Cuckoo!  Cuckoo!  447 

somewhere  ;  and  I  have  often  noticed,  sir,  a  whole  green 
region  without  a  symptom  of  life,  though  I  knew  that  it  was 
not  a  store-farm,  and  that  there  must  be  some  hundred  scores 
of  the  woolly  people  within  startling  of  the  same  low  mut 
ter  of  the  thunder-cloud. 

North.  How  soon  a  rill  becomes  a  river ! 

Registrar.  A  boy  a  man  ! 

North.  That  is  the  source  of  the  Woodburn,  Sam,  that 
well  within  five  yards  of  our  tent. 

Registrar.  How  the  Naiad  must  be  enjoying  the  wine- 
cooler  !  Imbibing — inhaling  the  aroma,  yet  returning  more 
than  she  receives,  and  tinging  the  taste  of  that  incomparable 
claret — vintage  1811 — with  her  own  sweet  breath! 

North.  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  !  cuckoo  ! — Yonder  she  goes  ! — 
see,  see,  Sam  ! — flitting  along  the  faint  blue  haze  on  the  hill 
side,  across  the  burn.  In  boyhood,  never  could  I  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  bird  any  more  than  Wordsworth. 

"  For  thou  wert  still  a  hope  ! — a  joy 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen." 

But  so  'tis  with  us  in  our  old  age.  All  the  mysteries  that 
held  our  youth  in  wonderment,  and  made  life  poetry,  dissolve 
— and  we  are  sensible  that  they  were  all  illusions ;  while 
other  mysteries  grow  more  awful ;  and  what  we  sometimes 
hoped,  in  the  hour  of  passion,  might  be  illusions,  are  seen  to 
be  God's  own  truths,  terrible  to  sinners,  and  wearing  a 
ghastly  aspect  in  the  gloom  of  the  grave  ! 

Tickler.  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  !  cuckoo  ! 

North.  She  has  settled  again  on  some  spray — for  she  is 
always  mute  as  she  flies  !  And  I  have  stood  right  below 
her,  within  three  yards  of  her  anomalous  ladyship,  as,  down 
head  and  up  tail,  with  wings  slightly  opening  from  her  sides, 
and  her  feathers  shivering,  she  took  far  and  wide  possession 
of  the  stillness  with  her  voice,  mellow  as  if  she  lived  oj 


448  The  Elf-Well 

honey  ;  and  indeed  I  suspect,  Sam — though  the  bridegroom 
eluded  my  ken — that  with  them    two  'twas  the   honeymoon. 

Ambrose  (rushing  into  the  Tent,  stark  naked,  except  his  flan 
nel  drawers}.  Hurra !  hurra !  hurra  ! — hurra  !  hurra  !  hurra  ! — 
hurra  !  hurra  !  hurra  !  Who'll  dance — who'll  dance  with  me 
— waltz — jig — Lowland  reel — Highland  fling — gallopade  ? 
Hurra  !  hurra  !  hurra  !  (Keeps  dancing  round  the  Tent  table, 
yelling,  and  snapping  Ms  fngers.) 

North.  Be  seated,  gentlemen — I  see  how  it  is — he  has 
been  drinking  of  the  elf-well,  up  among  the  rocks  behind  the 
Tent,  and  human  lip  never  touched  that  cold  stream,  but 
man  or  woman  lost  his  or  her  seven  senses,  and  was  insane 
for  life. 

Registrar.  A  pleasant  prospect. 

Tickler.  That  may  be — but,  confound  me,  if  Ambrose  be 
the  man  to  be  caught  in  that  kind  of  trap.  Where's  the 
Tower  of  Babel  ? 

North.  There! 

Ambrose  (pirouetting}.  Look  yonder,  mine  honored  mas 
ter,  through  those  rocks. 

North.  Nay,  Brose,  I  can  see  as  far  through  a  millstone,  or 
a  milestone  either,  as  most  men,  but  as  for  looking  through 
rocks — 

Ambrose.  I  saw  him,  with  these  blessed  eyes  of  mine,  I  saw 
him  on  horseback,  sir,  driving  down  the  hill  yonder,  sir,  at 
full  gallop — 

North.  Whom  ? — ye  saw  whom  ? 

Ambrose.  Himself,  sir — his  very  own  self,  sir — as  I  hope  to 
be  saved. 

Registrar.  I  fear  his  case  is  hopeless.  Those  sudden 
accesses  are  fatal. 

Tickler.  Who,  his  drawers  will  be  at  his  heels  if — 

Ambrose  (somewhat  subsiding}.  I  had  gone  into  the  dookin, 


The  Wild  Huntsman  I  449 

gentlemen,  as  you  say  in  Scotland,  and  was  ploutering  about 
in  the  pool,  when,  just  as  I  had  squeezed  the  water  out  of 
my  eyes  after  a  plunge,  I  chanced  to  look  up  the  hillside, 
and  there  I  saw  him — with  these  blessed  eyes  I  saw  him — 
his  own  very  self. 

(Horses'1  hoofs  heard  at  full  gallop  nearing  the  Tent. 
Tickler.  The  Wild  Huntsman  ! 

[Horse  and  rider  charge  the  Tent — horse  all  of  a  sudden 
halts — thrown  bock  on  his  haunches  —  and  rider,  flying 
over  his  head,  alights  on  his  feet — while  his  foraging  cap 
spins  over  the  Lion's  fiery  mane,  now  drooping  in  the  after 
noon  calm  from  the  mast-head. 

Omnes.  THE  SHEPHERD!  THE  SHEPHERD!  THE  SHEP 
HERD  !  hurra  !  hurra  !  hurra !  hurra  !  hurra  !  hurra  !  hurra ! 
hurra  !  hurra  ! 

Shepherd.   Hurra w  !  hurraw  !  hurraw  ! 

North  (white  as  a  sheet,  and  seeming  about  to  swoon).  Water  I 

Shepherd.  Whare's  the  strange  auld  tyke  ?  Whare's  the 
queer  auld  fallow  ?  Whare's  the  canty  auld  chiel !  Whare's 
the  dear  auld  deevil  ?  Oh  !  North — North — North — North 
— ma  freen — ma  brither — ma  faither — let's  tak  ane  anither 
intil  ane  anither's  arms — let's  kiss  ane  anither's  cheek — as 
the  guid  cheevalry  knichts  used  to  do — when,  ha'in  fa'en  out 
aboot  some  leddy-luve,  or  some  disputed  laun',  or  some  king's 
rhangefu'  favor,  or  aiblins  aboot  naething  ava  but  the  stupit 
lees  o'  some  evil  tongues,  they  happened  to  forgather  when 
riding  opposite  ways  through  a  wood,  and  flingin  themsels, 
wi'  ae  feeling  and  ae  thocht,  aff  their  twa  horses,  cam  clashin 
thegither  wi'  their  mailed  breists,  and  began  sobbin  in  the 
silence  o'  the  auncient  aiks  that  were  touched  to  their  verra 
cores  to  see  sic  forgiveness  and  sic  affection  atween  thae  twa 
stalwart  champions,  wha,  though  baith  noo  weepin  like  weans 
or  women,  had  aften  ridden  side  by  side  thegither,  wi'  shields 


450  The  Feud  Is  healed. 

on  their  breists  and  lang  lances  shootin  far  out  fearsomely 
afore  them,  intil  the  press  o'  battle,  while  their  chargers,  red- 
wat-shod,  gaed  gallopin  wi'  their  hoofs  that  never  ance 
touched  the  grun'  for  men's  faces  bashed  bluidy,  and  their 
sodden  corpses  squelchin  at  every  spang  o'  the  flying  dragoons. 
But  what  do  I  mean  by  all  this  talkin  to  mysel  ? — Pity  me — 
Mr.  North — but  you're  white's  a  ghaist !  Let  me  bear  ye 
in  my  airms  until  the  Tent. 

[SHEPHERD  carries  NORTH  into  the  Tent. 

North.  I  was  much  to  blame,  James — but — 

Shepherd.  I  was  muckle  mair  to  blame  mysel  nor  you,  sir, 
and — 

North.  Why,  James,  it  is  by  no  means  improbable  that  you 
were — 

Shepherd.  O  ye  auld  Autocrat !  But  will  ye  promise  me— 
gin  I  promise  ye — 

North.  Anything,  James,  in  the  power  of  mortal  man  to 
perform. 

Shepherd.  Gie's  your  haun  !  Noo  repeat  the  words  after 
me — (NORTH  keeps  earnestly  repeating  the  words') — I  swear,  in 
this  Tent  pitched  in  the  Fairy's  Cleugh,  in  presence  o' 
Timothy  Tickler  and  Sam  An — 

North.  They  are  not  in  the  Tent. 

Shepherd.  I  wasna  observin.  That's  delicate.  That  Iwull 
never  breathe  a  whusper  even  to  ma  ain  heart — at  the  lane- 
liest  hour  o'  midriicht — except  it  be  when  I  am  sayin  my 
prayers — dinna  sab,  sir — o'  ony  misunderstaunin  that  ever 
happened  atween  us  twa — either  about  Mawga,  or  ony  ither 
toppic — as  lang's  I  leeve — an'  am  no  deserted  by  my  senses 
— but  am  left  in  fu'  possession  o'  the  gift  o'  reason  ;  an'  I  noo 
dicht  aff  the  tablets  o'  my  memory  ilka  letter  o'  ony  ugly 
record,  that  the  enemy,  takin  advantage  o'  the  corruption  o' 
our  fallen  natur — contreeved  to  scarify  there,  wi'  the  pint  o' 


How  the  News  Spread.  451 

an  aim  pen — red-het  frae  yon  wicked  place — I  noo  dicht  them 
a'  aff ,  just  as  I  dicht  aff  frae  this  table  thae  wine-draps  wi' 
ma  sleeve — and  I  forgio  ye  frae  the  verra  bottom  o'  ma 
sowl — wi'  as  perfeck  forgiveness — as  if  you  were  my  aiu 
brither,  deein  at  hame  in  his  father's  house — shune  after  his 
return  frae  a  lang  voyage  outower  the  sea! 

[NORTH  and  the   SHEPHERD  again  embrace — their  faces  wax 

exceedingly  <  heerful — and  they  sit  for  a  little  while  without 

saying  a  word. 

North.  My  dear  James,  have  you  dined  ? 

Shepherd.  Dined  ?  Why,  man,  I've  had  ma  fowre-hours. 
But  I  maun  tell  ye  a'  about  it.  A  bit  lassie,  you  see,  that 
had  come  to  your  freen  Scottie's  to  pay  a  visit  to  a  sister  o' 
hers — a  servant  in  the  family — that  was  rather  dwinin — frae 
the  kintra  down  about  Annadale-wise,  past  by  the  Tent  in  the 
grey  o'  the  morning,  yesterday,  afore  ony  ane  o'  you  were  out 
o'  the  blankets,  except  a  cretur  that,  frae  the  description, 
maun  hae  been  Tappytoorie,  and  she  learned  frae  him  that 
the  Tent  belanged  to  a  great  lord  they  ca'd  North — Lord 
North — and  that  he  had  come  out  on  a  shootin  and  a  fishin 
ploy,  and,  forby,  to  tak  a  plan  o'  a'  the  hills,  in  order  to  mak 
a  moddle  o'  them  in  cork,  wi'  quicksiller  for  the  lochs  and 
rinnin  waters,  and  sheets  o'  beaten  siller  for  the  waterfa's, 
and  o'  beaten  gold  for  the  element  at  sunset — and  that  twa 
ither  shinin  characters  were  in  his  rettenue — wham  Tappy 
ca'd  to  her — as  she  threeped  * — Sir  Teemothy  Tickleham, 
Bart.,  o'  Southside,  and  the  Lord  High  Registrar  o'  Lunnon. 
Ma  heart  lap  to  ma  mouth,  and  then  after  some  flutterm 
becam  as  heavy's  a  lump  o'  cauld  lead.  The  wife  gied  me 
sic  a  smile  !  And  then  wee  Jamie  was  a'  the  while,  in  his 
affectionat  way,  leanin  again'  ma  knee.  I  took  a  walk  by 
mysel ;  and  a'  was  licht.  Forthwith  I  despatched  some 

*  Threeped — asserted. 


452  The  Shepherd  on  the  Road. 

gillies  to  wauken  the  Forest.  I  never  steekit  an  ee,  and  by 
skreigh  o'  day  *  was  aff  on  the  beast.  But  I  couldna  ken  how 
ye  micht  be  fennin  f  in  the  Tent  for  fish,  sae  I  thocht  I  micht 
as  weel  tak  a  whup  at  the  Meggat.  How  they  lap  !  $  I  filled 
ma  creel  afore  the  dew-melt ;  and  as  it's  out  o'  the  poo'r  o' 
ony  mortal  man  wi'  a  heart  to  gie  ower  fishin  in  the  Meggat 
durin  a  tak,  I  kent  by  the  sun  it  was  nine-hours,  and  by  that 
time  I  had  filled  a'  my  pouches,  the  braid  o'  the  tail  o'  some 
o'  them  whappin  again'  my  elbows.  You'll  no  be  surprised, 
Mr.  North — for  though  you're  far  frae  bein'  sic  a  gude  angler 
as  you  suppose,  and  as  you  cry  yoursel  up  in  Mawga,  oh ! 
but  you're  mad  fond  o't — that  I  had  clean  forgotten  the  beast ! 
After  a  lang  search  I  fand  him  a  mile  doun  the  water,  and 
ma  certes,  for  the  next  twa  hours  the  gress  didna  grow  aneath 
his  heels.  I  took  a  hantle  o'  short  cuts,  for  I  ken  the  kiutra 
better  than  ony  fox.  But  I  forgot  I  wasna  on  foot — the 
beast  gotblawn,  and  coming  up  the  Fruid,  §  reested  wi'  me  on 
Garlet-Dod.  The  girth  burst — aff  fell  the  saddle,  and  he 
fairly  laid  himsel  doun  !  I  feared  he  had  brak  his  heart,  and 
couldna  think  o'  leavin  him,  for,  in  his  extremity,  I  kent  the 
raven  o'  Gameshope  wad  hae  picked  out  his  een.  Sae  I  just 
thocht  I  wad  try  the  Fruid  wi'  the  flee,  and  put  on  a  pro 
fessor.  ||  The  Fruid's  fu'  o'  sma'  troots,  and  I  sune  had  a 
string.  I  couldna  hae  had  about  me,  at  this  time,  ae  way 
and  ither,  in  ma  several  repositories,  string  and  a,'  less  than 
thretty  dizzen  o'  troots.  I  heard  the  yaud  nicherin,  and 
kent  he  had  gotten  second  wun',  sae  having  hidden  the 
saddle  among  the  brackens,  munted,  and  lettin  him  tak  it 
easy  for  the  first  half-hour,  as  I  skirted  Earlshaugh  holms  T 
got  him  on  the  haun -gallop,  and  I  needna  tell  you  o'  the 


*  SJcreigho'  day — break  of  day.  t  Fennin — faring. 

$  Lop— leaped.  §  A  tributary  of  the  Tweed. 

0  A  fly,  so  called  after  Professor  Wilson. 


Tickler  is  *'  trotted:'  453 

Arab-like  style  in  which  I  feenally  brocht  him  in,  for,  con 
sidering  that  I  carried  wecht,  you'll  alloo  he  wad  be  cheap 
at  a  hunder  guineas,  and  for  that  soum,  sir,  the  beast's  your 
ain ! — Rax  me  ower  the  jug. — But  didna  I  see  a  naked 


man: 


[Re-enter  TICKLER  and  the  REGISTAR. 
Tickler.  O  King  of  the   Shepherds,  mayst  thou   live  for 


ever! 


Shepherd  (looking  inquisitively  to  NORTH).  Wha's  he  that9 
(Turning  to  TICKLER) — Sir !  you've  the  advantage  of  me — for 
I  really  cannot  say  that  I  ever  had  the  pleasure  o'  seein  you 
atween  the  een  afore  ;  but  you're  welcome  to  our  Tent — sit 
douu,  and  gin  ye  be  dry,  tak  a  drink. 

Registrar.  James? 

Shepherd.  Ma  name's  no  James.  But  what  though  it  was  ? 
Folk  shouldna  be  sae  familiar  at  first  sight.  To  NORTH  in  an 
undertone) — A  man  o'  your  renown,  sir,  should  really  be  mair 
seleck. 

Tickler.  I  beg  pardon,  sir — but  I  mistook  you  for  that  half 
witted  body,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd. 

Shepherd.  Ane  can  pardon  ony  degree  o'  stoopidity  in  a 
fallow  that  has  sunk  sae  laigh  in  his  ain  esteem,  as  weel's  in 
that  o'  the  warld,  as  to  think  o'  retreevin  his  character  by 
pretendin  to  pass  himsel  aff,  on  the  mere  strength  o'  the 
length  o'  his  legs,  for  sic  an  incorrigible  ne'er-do-weel  as 
Timothy  Tickler.  But  let  me  tell  you,  you  had  better  keep 
a  gude  tongue  in  your  head,  or  I'll  maybe  tak  you  by  the  cuff 
o'  the  neck,  and  turn  ye  out  o'  the  Tent. 

North  to  the  (SHEPHERD  in  an  undertone.")  Trot  him,  James, 
— trot  him — he's  sensitive. 

Shepherd.  You  maybe  ken  him?  Ts't  true  that  he's  gotten 
in  til  debt,  and  that  Southside's  adverteezed  ? 

Tickler  (coloring).  It's  a  lie. 


454  The  Lord  High  Registrar. 

Shepherd.  That  pruves  it  to  be  true.  Nay,  it  amaist,  too, 
pruves  you  to  be  Tickler.  Oh !  nae  mair  nonsense — nae  mair 
nonsense,  sir — Southside,  Southside — but  I'm  happier  to  see 
you,  sir,  than  tongue  can  tell — but  as  the  heart  knoweth  its 
a'n  bitterness,  sae  knoweth  it  its  ain  sweetness  too  ;  and  noo 
that  I'm  sittin  again  atween  you  twa  (putting  one  arm  over 
CHRISTOPHER'S  shoulder,  and  one  over  TIMOTHY'S,  starting 
up  and  rushing  round  the  circular) — "  gude  faith,  I'm  like  to 
greet."  Sam  !  Sam  !  Sam  ! 

Registrar.  God  bless  you,  James. 

Shepherd.  Arid  hae  ye  come  a'  the  way  frae  Lunnon  to  the 
Fairy's  Cleugh  ?  And  werena  ye  intendin  to  come  out  to 
Altrive  to  see  the  auld  Shepherd  ?  Oh  !  but  we  were  a'  glad, 
man,  to  hear  o'  your  appointment,  though  nane  o'  us  ken 
very  distinckly  the  nature  o't,  some  sayin  they  had  made  you 
a  Bishop,  only  without  a  seat  among  the  Lords,  some  a  Judge 
o'  the  Pleas  ;  and  there  was  a  sugh  for  a  while — but  frae 
you're  bein'  here  the  noo,  during  the  sittin  o'  Parliament, 
that  canna  weel  be  true — that  the  King,  by  the  recommenda 
tion  o'  Lord  Broom  and  Vox,  had  appointed  you  his  Premier, 
on  the  death  o'  Yearl  Grey  ;  but  tell  me,  was  the  lassie  richt 
after  a'  in  denominatin  ye,  on  the  authority  o'  Tappytoorie, 
Lord  High  Registrar  o'  Lunnon,  and  is  the  post  a  sinecure, 
and  a  free  gift  o'  the  Whigs  ? 

Registrar.  That,  James,  is  my  appointment — but  'tis  no 
sinecure.  The  duties  are  manifold,  difficult,  and  important. 

North.  I  wish  somebody  would  knock  me  "down  for  a  song. 

Shepherd.  I'll  do  that — but  recollect — nae  fawsettoes — I 
canna  thole  fawsettoes — a  very  tailor  micht  be  ashamed  o' 
fawsettoes — for  fawsettoes  mak  ye  think  o'  something  less 
than  the  ninety-ninth  pairt  o'  a  man — and  that's  ten  timea 
less  than  a  tailor — and  amaist  naething  ava — sae  that  the 
man  vanishes  intil  a  pint.  Nae  fawsettoes. 


Studies  from  the  Antique.  455 

(NORTH  sings  "  Sam  Anderson.") 

Tickler.  That  must  be  all  Greek  to  you,  James. 

Registrar.  The  less  you  say,  the  better,  Tim,  about  Greek. 
The  Shepherd  was  not  with  us  when  I  sung  a  scrap  of  old 
Eubulus — but — 

Shepherd.  I  have  been  studyin  the  Greek  for  twa  wunters.* 
Wunter  afore  last  I  made  but  sma'  progress,  and  got  but  a 
short  way  ayont  the  roots — for  the  curlin  cam  in  the  way — 
but  this  bygane  wunter  there  was  nae  ice  in  the  Forest — or 
at  Duddistane  either — and  I  majstered,  during  the  lang  nichts 
at  name,  an  incalculable  crood  o'  dereevative  vocables,  and  a 
hantle  o'  the  kittlest  compounds. 

Registrar.  What  grammars  and  lexicons  do  you  use,  Shep 
herd  ? 

Shepherd.  Nane  but  the  maist  common.  I  hae  completed 
a  version  o'  Theocritus,  and  Bion,  and  Moschus — no  to  men 
tion  Anacreon  ;  and  gin  there's  nae  curlin  neist  wunter  either 
— and  o'  that  there's  but  sma'  chance,  for  a  change  has  been 
gradually  takin  place  within  these  few  years,  in  the  ellipse  o' 
the  earth — I  suspect  about  the  ecliptic — I  purpose  puttin  a' 
ma  strength  upon  Pindar.  His  Odds  are  dark — but  some 
grand,  as  ane  o'  thae  remarkable  simmer-nichts  when  a'  below 
is  lown,  and  yet  there  is  storm  in  heaven,  the  moon  glimps 
ing  by  fits  through  cluds,  and  then  a'  at  ance  a  blue  spat  fu' 
o'  stars. 

North.  The  Theban  Swan — 

Shepherd  I'm  ower  happy  to  sing  this  afternoon,  but  I'm 
able,  I  think,  to  receet ;  and  here's  ane  o'  my  attempts  on  an 
Eedle  o'  Bion — the  third  Eedle — get  the  teetle  frae  Tickler. 

Tickler.  Third  Idyl  of  Bion. 

*  "  I  canna  read  Greek,"  the  Shepherd  had  said  on  an  earlier  evening 
'*  except  in  a  Latin  translation  done  into  English." 


456  An  Idyl  of  Bion. 

(SHEPHERD  recites. 

Great  Venus  once  appeared  to  me,  still  slumbering  in  my  bed, 

And  Cupid  in  her  beauteous  hand,  a  tottering  child  she  led  ; 

And  thus  with  winning  words  she  spake,  "  See,  Cupid  here  I  bring. 

Oh,  take  him  !  shepherd  dear  to  me,  and  teach  him  how  to  sing  !  " 

She  disappeared,  and  I  began,  a  baby  in  my  turn, 

To  teach  him  all  the  shepherd's  songs— as  though  he  meant  to  learn, 

How  Pan  the  crooked  pipe  found  out,  Minerva  made  the  flute, 

How  Hermes  struck  the  tortoise-shell,  and  Phoebus  formed  the  lute. 

All  this  J  taught,  but  little  heed  gave  Cupid  to  my  speech  ; 

Then  he  himself  sweet  carols  sung,  and  me  began  to  teach 

The  loves  of  God  and  men,  and  all  his  mother  did  to  each. 

Then  I  forgot  what  I  myself  to  Cupid  taught  before  : 

But  all  the  songs  he  taught  to  me,  I  learnt  them  evermore  1 

North.  Quite  in  the  style  of  Trevor,  who  did  such  fine 
versions  for  my  articles  on  the  Greek  Anthology. 

Shepherd.  I  canna  mak  out,  Mr.  North,  the  cause  o'  the 
effect  o'  novelty  as  a  source  o'  pleasure.  Some  objects  aye 
please,  however  common. 

Tickler.  Don't  prose,  Jamie. 

Shepherd.  Ass  !  There's  the  Daisy.  Naebody  cares  muckle 
about  the  Daisy — till  you  ask  them — and  then  they  feel  they 
hae  aye  liked  it,  and  quote  Burns.  Noo  naebody  tires  o' 
the  daisy.  A'  the  warld  would  be  sorry  gin  a'  daisies  were 
dead. 

Tickler.  Puir  auld  silly  body. 

Shepherd.  There  again  are  Dockens.  What  for  are  they  a 
byword  ?  Theyre  saft,  and  smooth,  and  green,  and  hae  naa 
bad  smell.  Yet  a'  the  warld  would  be  indifferent  were  a' 
dockens  dead. 

Tickler.  I  would  rather  not. 

Shepherd.  What  for  ?  Would  a  docken,  think  ye,  Mr. 
North,  be  "  beauteous  to  see,  a  weed  o'  glorious  feature,"  if 
it  were  scarce  and  a  hot-house  plant  ?  Would  leddies  and 
gentlemen,  gin  it  were  ony  ways  an  unique,  pay  to  get  a 


The  Loving  Ways  of  Dogs.  457 

look  at  a  docken  ?  But  I  fin'  that  I'm  no  thrawin  ae  single 
particle  o'  licht  on  the  subjeck  ;  and  the  perplexing  question 
will  aye  recur,  "  Why  is  the  daisy,  though  sae  common,  never 
felt  to  be  commonplace  ?  and  the  docken  aye  ?  " 

Tickler.  The  reason,  undoubtedly,  is — 

Shepherd.  Haud  your  arrogant  tongue,  Southside,  and  never 
again,  immediately  after  I  hae  said  that  ony  metapheezical 
subjeck's  perplexing,  hae  the  insolence  and  the  silliness  to  say, 
"  The  reason,  undoubtedly,  is."  If  it's  no  coorse,  it's  rude — 
and  a  man  had  better  be  coorse  nor  rude  ony  day — but  oh, 
sirs,  what'n  a  pity  that  in  the  Tent  there  are  nae  dowgs ! 

Tickler.  I  hate  curs. 

Shepherd.  A  man  ca'in  himsel  a  Christian,  and  hatin  poetry 
and  dowgs ! 

Tickler.   Hang  the  brutes. 

Shepherd.  There's  nae  sic  perfeck  happiness,  I  suspeck,  sir, 
as  that  o'  the  brutes.  No  that  I  wuss  I  had  been  born  a 
brute — yet  aften  hae  I  been  tempted  to  envy  adowg.  What 
gladness  in  the  cretur's  een,  gin  ye  but  speak  a  single  word 
to  him,  when  you  and  him's  sittin  thegither  by  your  twa  sels 
on  the  hill.  Pat  him  on  the  head,  and  say,  "  Hector,  ma 
man!"  and  he  whines  wi'  joy — snap  your  thooms,  and  he 
gangs  dancing  round  you  like  a  whirlwind — gie  a  whusslin 
hiss,  and  he  loups  frantic  ower  your  head — cry  halloo,  and 
he's  aff  like  a  shot,  chasing  naething,  as  if  he  were  mad. 

North.  Alas  !  poor  Bronte  ! 

Shepherd.  Whisht,  dinna  think  o'  him,  but  in  general  o' 
dowgs.  Love  is  the  element  a  dowg  leeves  in,  and  a'  that's 
necessary  for  his  enjoyment  o'  life  is  the  presence  o'  his 
master. 

Registrar.  "  With  thee  conversing,  he  forgets  all  time." 
Shepherd.  Yet,  wi'  a'  his   sense,  he  has  nae  idea  o'  death, 
True,  he  will  lie  upon  his  master's  grave,  and  even  howk  wi' 


458  The  Wayside  Pan. 

his  paws  in  an  affeckin  manner,  but  for  a'  that,  believe  me,  he 
has  nae  idea  o'  death.  He  snokes  wi'  his  nose  into  the  hole 
his  paws  are  howkin,  just  as  if  he  were  after  a  moudiewarp. 

North.  God  is  the  soul  of  the  brute  creatures. 

Shepherd.  Ay,  sir — instinct  wi'  them's  the  same's  reason 
wi'  us, — only  we  ken  what  we  intend — they  do  not;  we 
reflect  in  a  mathematical  problem,  for  example,  how  best  to 
L.g  a  house  ;  they  reflect  nane,  but  what  a  house  they  big ! 
Sir  Isaac  Newton,  o'  himsel,  without  learnin  the  lesson  frae 
the  bees,  wadna  hae  contrived  a  hive  o'  hinney-combs,  and 
biggen  them  up,  cell  by  cell,  hung  the  creation,  like  growing 
fruit,  on  the  branch  o'  a  tree  ! 

North.  You  that  are  a  Greek  scholar,  James,  do  you 
remember  an  inscription  for  a  wayside  Pan,  by  Alcaeus? 

Shepherd.  I  remember  the  speerit  o't,  but  I  forget  the  words. 
Indeed,  I'm  no  sure  if  ever  I  kent  the  words  ;  but  that's  nae- 
thing — at  this  moment  I  feel  the  inscription  in  the  original 
Greek  to  be  very  beautiful !  For  sake  o'  Mr.  Tickler,  perhaps 
you'll  receet  it  in  English  ? 

North.— 

Wayfaring  man,  by  heat  and  toil  oppressed, 

Here  lay  thee  down  thy  languid  limbs  to  rest, 

Upon  this  flowery  meadow's  fragrant  breast. 

Here  the  pine  leaves,  where  whispering  zephyrs  stray, 

Shall  soothe  thee  listening  to  Cigala's  lay, 

And  on  yon  mountain's  brow  the  shepherd  swain 

Pipes  by  the  gurgling  fount  his  noontide  strain, 

Secure  beneath  the  plantane's  *  leafy  spray, 

From  the  autumnal  dog-star's  siiltry  ray. 

To-morrow  thou'lt  get  on,  wayfaiing  man, 

So  listen  to  the  good  advice  of  Pan. 

Shepherd.  Thae  auncients,  had  they  been  moderns,  would 
hae  felt  a'  we  feel  oursels ;  and  sometimes  I'm  tempted  to 
confess,  that  in  the  matter  o'  expression  o'  a  simple  thocht, 

*  Plantane— the  plane-tree. 


The  Forest  is  wakened.  459 

th-y  raU.er  excel  us — for,  however  polished  may  be  ony  ane 
o  heir  iiaist  carefu'  compositions,  it  never  looks  artificial, 
an- 1  the  verra  finish  o'  the  execution  seems  to  be  frae  the 
fin ;  finger  o'  Nature's  ain  inspired  sel !  Oh,  how  I  hate  the 
artilicial ! 

Registrar.  Not  worse  than  I. 

Skepherd.  Ca'  a  thing  artificial  that's  no  ony  sic  thing,  and 
ye  make  me  like  it  less  and  less  till  I  absolutely  dislike  it ; 
but  then  the  sense  o'  injustice  comes  to  ma  relief,  and  I  love 
it  better  than  afore — as,  for  example,  a  leddy  o'  fine  educa 
tion,  or  a  garden  flower.  For,  I'll  be  shot,  if  either  the  ane 
or  the  ither  be  necessarily  artificial,  or  no  just  as  bonny, 
regarded  in  a  richt  licht,  as  a  lass  or  a  lily  o'  low  degree. 
Ony  ither  touchin  trifle  frae  the  Greek,  sir? 

North.  We  have  had  Pan — now  for  Priapus. 

Shepherd.  Ye  maun  heed  what  you  say,  sir,  o'  Priawpus. 

North.  Archias  is  always  elegant,  James. 

Registrar.  And  often  more  than  elegant,  North — poetical. 
He  had  a  fine  eye,  too,  sir,  for  the  picturesque. 

North.— 

Near  to  the  shore,  upon  this  neck  of  land, 

A  poor  Priapus,  here  I  ever  stand. 

Carved  in  such  guise,  and  forced  such  form  to  take, 

As  sons  of  toilsome  fishermen  could  make, 

My  feetless  legs,  and  cone-shaped,  towering  head, 

Fill  every  cormorant  with  fear  and  dread. 

But  when  for  aid  the  fisher  breathes  a  prayer, 

I  come  more  swiftly  than  the  storms  of  air. 

I  also  eye  the  ships  that  stem  the  flood: 

'Tis  deeds,  not  beauty,  show  the  real  God. 

[Loud  hurras  heard  from  the  glen,  and  repeated  by  all  tht 

echoes. 

North.  Heavens  !  what's  that  ? 

Shepherd.  Didna  I  tell  ye  I  had  waukened  the  Forest  ? 
What's  twunty,  thretty,  or  fifty  miles  to  the  lads  and  lassies 


460  The  Forest  Worthies  arrive 

o'  the  South  o'  Scotland  ?  Auld  women  and  weans  '11  walk 
that  atwecn  the  twa  gloamins, — and  haena  they  gigs,  and 
carts,  and  pownies  for  the  side-saddle,  and  lang  bare-backed 
yauds  that  can  carry  fower  easy — and  at  a  pinch,  by  haudin 
on  by  mane  and  tail,  five  ?  Scores  hae  been  paddin  the  hoof* 
sin'  mornin  frae  the  head  o'  Clydesdale — Annan-banks  hae 
been  roused  as  by  the  sound  o'  a  trumpet — and  the  auld  Grey 
Mare  f  has  been  a'  day  whuskin  her  tail  wi'  pleasure  to  see 
Moffatdale  croudin  to  the  Jubilee. 

[They  all  take  their  station  outside  on   the  brae,  and  hold 
up  their  hands. 

North.  I  am  lost  in  amazement ! 

Tickler.  A  thousand  souls  ! 

Registrar.  I  have  been  accustomed  to  calculate  the  numbers 
of  great  multitudes — and  I  fix  them  at  fifteen  hundred,  men, 
women,  and  children. 

Shepherd.  Twa  hunder  collies,  and,  asses  and  mules  in 
cluded,  a  hunder  horse. 

Registrar.  Of  each  a  Turm. 

Shepherd.  Oh  !  sir,  isna't  a  bonny  sicht  ?  There's  a  Tredd's 
Union  for  you,  sir,  that  may  weel  mak  your  heart  sing  for 
joy — shepherds  and  herdsmen,  and  ploughmen,  and  woods 
men,  that  wad,  if  need  were,  fecht  for  their  kintra.  ^vi* 
Christopher  North  at  their  head,  against  either  foreign  or 
domestic  enemies ;  but  they  come  noo  to  do  him  homage  at 
the  unviolated  altar  which  Nature  has  erected  to  Peace. 

Registrar.  A  band  of  maidens  in  the  van — unbonneted — 
silken-snooded  all.  And  hark — they  sing !  Too  distant  for 
us  to  catch  the  words — but  music  has  its  own  meanings  — 
and  only  that  it  is  somewhat  more  mirthful,  we  might  think 
it  was  a  hymn  ! 

*  raddin  the  hoof—  trudging  on  foot. 

t  The  waterfall  so  called  near  St.  Mary's  Loch. 


To  crown  the  King  of  Scotland!  461 

Shepherd  (to  Tickler  and  the  Registrar) .  Dinna  look  at  him, 
he's  greetin.  If  that  sound  was  sweet,  isna  this  silence 
sublime  ? 

Tickler.  What  are  they  after  now,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  They  hae  gotten  their  general  orders — and  a'  the 
leaders  ken  weel  hoo  to  carry  them  intil  ejffeck.  The  phalanx 
is  noo  breakin  into  pieces  noo,  like  camstrary*  cluds — ae  speerit 
inspires  and  directs  a'  its  muvements,  and  it  is  deploying, 
Mr.  Tickler,  round  yon  great  hie-kirk-looking  rocks,  intil  a 
wide  level  place  that's  a  perfect  circle,  and  which  ye  wha 
hae  been  here  the  best  part  o'  a  week,  I'se  warrant,  ken 
naething  about ;  for  Natur,  I  think,  maun  hae  made  it  for 
hersel ;  and  such  is  the  power  o'  its  beauty,  that  sittin  there 
aften  in  youth,  hae  I  clean  forgotten  that  there  was  ony  ither 
warld. 

Registrar. — 

"  Shaded  with  branching  palm,  the  sign  of  Peace." 

Shepherd.  Ay,  mony  o'  them  are  carrying  the  boughs  o1 
trees — and  it's  wonderfu'  to  see  how  leafy  they  are  so  early 
in  the  season.  But  Spring,  prophetic  o'  North's  visit,  has 
festooned  the  woods. 

Tickler.  Not  boughs  and  branches  only 

Shepherd.  But  likewise  furms.  There's  no  a  few  mechanics 
amang  them,  sir,  house-carpenters  and  the  like,  and  seats  'ill 
be  sune  raised  a'  round  and  round,  in  an  hour  or  less 
you'll  see  sic  a  congregation  as  you  saw  never  afore,  a'  sittin 
in  an  amphitheatre — and  aneath  a  hangin  rock  a  platform — 
and  on  the  platform  a  throne  wi'  its  regal  chair — and  in  the 
chair  wha  but  Christopher  North — and  on  his  head  a  crown 
o'  Flowers — for  lang  as  he  has  been  King  o'  Scotland — this — 
this  is  Coronation  Day.  Hearken  to  the  bawn  !  f 

*  Camstrary  or  camsteery — unmanageable.  1  Baton — band. 


XXVI. 

A  NIGHT  ON  THE  LEADS  OF  THE  LODGE. 

SCENE. —  The  Leads  of  the  Lodge.  Present — NORTH,  TICKLER. 
the  SHEPHERD,  BULLER.   Time — Evening. 

Shepherd.  This  fane}7  beats  a',  and  pruves  o'  itsel,  sir,  that 
you're  a  poet.  In  fine  weather,  leevin  on  the  leeds  !  And 
siccan  an  awnin  !  No  a  threed  o'  cotton  about  it,  or  linen 
either,  but  dome,  wa's,  cornishes,  and  fringes — a'  silk.  Oh ! 
but  she's  a  tastefu'  cretur,  that  Mrs.  Gentle — for  I  see  the 
touch  o'  her  haim  in  the  hangings,  the  festoonins,  the 
droopins  o'  the  draperies — andit'sasair  pity  that  ye  twa,  who 
are  seen  to  be  but  ae*  speerit,  arena  likewise  ae  flesh.  Par 
don  the  allusion,  Mr.  North,  but  you'll  never  be  perfectly 
happy  till  she  bears  your  name,  or  aiblins  you'll  tak  hers,  my 
dear  auld  sir,  and  ca'  yoursels  Mr.  and  Mrs.  North  Gentle ; 
or  gin  you  like  better  to  gie  hers  the  precedence,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gentle  Christopher  North.  But  either  o'  the  twa  would  be 
characteristic  and  euphonous — for  you're  humane,  sir,  by 
nature,  though  by  habit  rather  savage,  and  a'  you  want  to  saften 
you  back  into  your  original  constitution  is  to  be  a  husband — 

Tickler.  And  a  father. 

Shepherd.  As  likely  to  be  that  as  yoursel,  Mr.  Tickler,  and 
likelier  too  ;  and  a'  the  warld  would  admire  to  see  a  bit  canty 
callant  or  yellegant  lassie  trottin  at  his  knee 

*  Ae— one. 
462 


The  Conservatory.  463 

Tickler. 

"  With  all  its  mother's  tenderness, 
And  all  its  father's  fire  I " 

North.  James,  is  it  not  a  beautiful  panorama  ? 

Shepherd.  A  panorama !  What  ?  wad  you  wush  to  hae  a 
panorama  o'  weans  ? 

North.  I  mean  the  prospect,  James. 

Shepherd.  A  prospect  o'  a  panorama  o'  weans  ! 

North.  Poo — poo — my  dear  Shepherd — you  wilfully  mis 
apprehend  my  meaning — look  round  you  over  land  and  sea  ! 

Shepherd.  I  canna  look  farrer  than  the  leeds.  Oh  !  but  it's 
a  beautiful  Conservatory  !  I  never  afore  saw  an  Orange-tree. 
And  it's  true  what  I  hae  read  o'  them — blossom  and  fruit  on 
the  same  plant — nae  dout  an  evergreen — and  in  this  caulder 
clime  o'  ours  bricht  wi'  its  gowden  ba's  as  if  we  were  in  the 
Wast  Indies  ! — What  ca'  ye  thir  ?  * 

North.  These  are  mere  myrtles. 

Shepherd.  Mere  myrtles  !  Dinna  say  that  again  o'  them — 
mere  ;  an  ungratefu'  word,  o'  a  flowery  plant  a'  fu'  o' bonny 
white  starnies — and  is  that  their  scent  that  I  smell  ? 

North.  The  balm  is  from  many  breaths,  my  dear  James. 
Nothing  that  grows  is  without  fragrance— 

Shepherd.  However  fent.f  I  fand  that  out  when  a  toddler 
— for  I  used  to  fling  awa  or  drap  whatever  I  pu'd  that  I 
thocht  had  nae  smell — till  ae  day  I  began  till  suspect  that  the 
faut  micht  lie  in  my  ain  nose,  and  no  in  the  buds  or  leaves, 
— and  frae  a  thousand  sma'  experiments  I  was  glad  to  learn 
it  was  sae — and  that  there  was  scent — as  ye  weel  said  the 
noo — in  a'  that  grows.  Wasna  that  kind  o'  Nature !  Hoo 
else  could  that  real  poet,  Tamson,  hae  said,  "the  air  is 
bawm  !  " 

Tickler.  I  desiderate  the  smell  of  dinner. 

«  Thir— these.  t  Pent— faint. 


464  "  Help  yvurself^  James." 

Shepherd.  What'n  a  sensual  sentiment!  The  smell  o* 
vittals  is  delicious  whan  the  denner's  gettin  dished,  and 
during  the  time  o'  eatin,  but  for  an  hour  or  mair  after  the 
cloth  has  been  drawn,  the  room  to  ma  nose  has  aye  a  close 
het  smell,  like  that  o'  ingans.  It's  no  the  custom  o'  the 
kintra  to  leeve  wi'  the  leddies — but  nae  drawin-room  like  the 
leeds. — What'n  frutes  ! 

North.   Help  yourself,  James. 

Shepherd.  I'll  thank  ye,  Mr.  Tickler,  to  rax  me  ower  thae 
oranges. 

Tickler.  They  are  suspiciously  dark  in  the  color — but 
perhaps  you  like  the  bitter  ? 

Shepherd.  They're  nae  mair  ceevil*  than  yoursel — but 
genuine  St.  Michaelers — and  as  they're  but  sma',  half-a-dizzen 
o'  them  will  sharpen  the  pallet  for  some  o'  thae  American 
aipples  that  never  put  ane's  teeth  on  edge — which  is  mair 
than  you  can  say  for  Scotch  anes,  that  are  noo  seldom  sweeter 
than  scribes. 

Butter.  Scribes  ? 

Shepherd.  Crabs.  Mr.  North,  we  maun  tak  tent  what  we're 
aboot,  for  it  wouldna  answer  weel  to  stoiter  ower  the  edge  o' 
the  leeds ;  nor  yet  to  tummle  doun  the  trap-door  stairs. 

North.  The  companion-ladder,  if  you  please,  James. 

Shepherd.  Companion-ladder  ?  I  suppose  because  only  ae 
person  can  climb  up  at  a  time — though  there's  room  aneuch, 
that's  true,  for  severals  to  fa'  doun  at  ance — but  the  term's 
nowtical,  I  ken — and  you're  a  desparate  ere  turf  or  thinkino* 
the  sea. 

North.  Would  that  Tom  Cringlef  were  here — the  best 
sketcher  of  sea-scenery  that  ever  held  a  pen  ! 


*  Seville— Garrick's  poor  pun  on  being  pelted  with  oranges, 
t  Michael  Scott,  the  author  of   Tom  Cringle's  Log,  was  born  In  Glasgow 
in  1789,  and  died  in  1835. 


The  Preliminaries. 

Butter.  Glascock,  sir,  can  tell,  too,  a  Story  as  well  as  the 
best  of  them  all — Hall,  or  Marryat,  or  Chamier — of  the  Gun 
room  and  the  Captain's  cabin. 

North.  He  can — and  eke  of  the  Admiral's.  Marryat  and 
Glascock  in  a  bumper,  with  all  the  honors. 

Shepherd.  Na.     I  wunna  drink' t. 

North.  James  ! ! ! 

Tickler.   What  the  devil's  the  matter  with  you  now  ? 

Butter.    Mr.  Hogg ! 

Shepherd.    If  I  drink't,  may  I  be — • 

North.  No  cursing  or  swearing  allowed  on  board  this  ship. 

Tickler.   Call  the  master-of-arms,  and  let  him  get  a  dozen. 

Shepherd.  If  ony  man  says  that  ever  I  cursed  or  sweered 
either  in  ship  or  shielin,  then  he's  neither  mair  nor  less  than 
a  confoonded  leear.  Fules  !  fules  !  fules  !  Sumphs  !  sumphs  ! 
sumphs  !  Sops  !  sops  !  sops  !  Saps  !  saps !  saps  !  Would 
you  cram  the  healths  o'  twa  siccan  men,  wi'  a'  the  honours, 
intil  ae  bumper  ?  Let's  drink  them  separate — and  in 
tumblers. 

North.  Charge. 

Ticker.  Halt.     "  I  wunna  drink't." 

Shepherd.  I'll  no  be  mocked,  Tickler.  Besides,  that's  no 
the  least  like  ma  vice. 

Tickler.  "  I  wunna  drink't  " — unless  we  all  quaff,  before 
sitting  down,  another  tumbler  to  Basil  Hall. 

North.  With  all  my  heart. 

Shepherd.  And  sowl. 

Butter.  And  mind.     Stap — "  I  wunna  drink't." 

Shepherd.  That's  real  like  me — for  an  Englisher. 

Tickler.  Craziness  is  catching. 

North.  Well  said,  Son  of  Isis. 

Butter.  Tom  Cringle. 

30 


466  TJie  Bumpers  are  emptied. 

Omnes.  Ay,  ay,  sir. — Ay,  ay,  sir. — Ay,  ay,  sir. 
North.  Instead  of  the  rule  seniores  priores — to  prove  our 
equal  regard — let  us  adopt  an  arithmetical  order— and  drink 
them  in  Round  Robin. 

[Four  (that  is,  sixteen)  bumper  tumblers  (not  of  the  higher 
ranks,  but  the  middle  orders)  are  emptied  arithmetically, 
with  all  the  honors,  to  the  healths  of  Captains  Cringle, 
Glascock,  Hall,  and  Marryat.  For  a  season  there  is 
silence  on  the  leads,  and  you  hear  the  thrush — near  his 
second  or  third  brood — at  his  evening  song. 

Shepherd.  Fowre  tummlers,  taken  in  instant  sequence,  o' 
strang  drink,  by  each  o'  fowre  men — a'  fowre  nae  farder 
back  than  yestreen  sworn-in  members  o'  the  left-haun  branch 
o'  the  Temperance  Society !  I  howp  siccan  a  decided  excep 
tion,  while  it  is  pruvin,  mayna  explode,  the  general  rule. 
The  general  rule  wi'  us  fowre  when  we  forgather,  is  to 
drink  naething  but  milk  and  water — the  general  exception 
to  drink  naething  but  speerits  o'  wine, — that  was  a  lapsus 
lingy — speerits  and  wine.  It's  a  pleasant  sicht  to  see  a 
good  general  rule  reconciled  wi'  a  good  general  exception  ; 
and  it's  my  earnest  desire  to  see  a'  the  haill  warld  shakin 
hauns. 

North.  Peter,  place  my  pillows.  [PETER  does  so. 

Shepherd.  There's  ane  geyan  weel  shued  up.* 

Tickler.  St.  Peter  ?     I'm  Pope.     Kiss  my  toe,  James. 

Shepherd.  Drink  aye  maks  him  clean  daft. 

Stiller.  'Tis  merry  in  the  hall,  when  beards  wag  all.  Then 
all  took  a  smack — a  smack,  at  the  old  black-jack — to  the 
sound  of  the  bugle-horn — to  the  sound  of  the  bugle-horn. 
Such  airs  I  hate,  like  a  pig  in  a  gate — give  me  the  good  old 
strain — and  nought  is  heard  on  every  side  but  signoras  and 
signors — like  a  pig  in  a  gate,  to  the  sound  of  the  bugle-horn. 

*  Shued  up — sewed  up. 


Peter  is  cross-examined.  467 

Shepherd.  Drink  maks  him  musical — yet  he  seems  to  re 
member  the  words  better  nor  the  tune.  North  !  nae  snorin 
alloo'd  on  the  leeds.  Tickler !  do  you  hear  ?  nae  snorin 
alloo'd  on  the  leeds.  Buller,  pu'  baith  their  noses.  Fa'en 
ower  too !  Noo,  I  ca'  that  a  tolerable  nawsal  treeo.  It's 
really  weel  snored.  Tickler !  you're  no  keepin  time.  Kit, 
your'e  gettin  out  o'  tune.  Buller,  nae  fawsetto.  Come  here, 
Peter,  I  wush  to  speak  to  you.  (PETER  goes  to  the  SHEP 
HERD.)  Isna  Mr.  North  gettin  rather  short  in  the  temper  ? 
Haena  ye  observed,  too,  a  fa'in  aff  o'  some  o'  his  faculties — 
sic  as  memory — and,  I  fear,  judgment  ?  And  what's  this  I 
hear  o'  him  ?  (whispering  PETER.)  I  do  indeed  devoutly  trust 
it  'ill  no  get  wun' !  (PETER  puts  his  finger  to  his  nose,  and 
looking  towards  NORTH,  winks  the  SHEPHERD  to  be  mum.)  Ye 
needna  clap  your  finger  on  your  nose,  and  wunk,  and  screw 
your  mouth  in  that  gate,  for  he's  in  a  safe  snorin  sleep. 

Peter  (indignantly).  Mr.  Hogg,  I  trust  I  shall  never  be  so 
far  left  to  myself  as  to  act  in  any  manner  unbecoming  my 
love,  gratitude,  and  veneration  for  the  best  and  noblest  of 
men  and  masters. 

Shepherd.  You  did  put  your  forefinger  to  your  nose — you 
did  wunk — ye  did  screw  your  mouth — ye  did  gesticulate 
that  ye  suspeckit  his  sleep  wasna  as  real's  his  snore — and 
ye  did  nod  yes  when  I  asked  you  wi'  a  whusper  in  your  lug 
if  it  was  true  that  he  had  taken  to  tipplin  by  himsel  in  the 
forenoons  ? 

North  (starting  up}.  Ye  backbiting  hog  in  armor — but  I 
will  break  your  bones — Peter,  the  crutch  ! 

Shepherd.  The  crutch  is  safe  under  lock  and  key  in  its  am 
case — and  the  key's  in  ma  pocket — for  you're  no  in  a  condi 
tion  to  be  trusted  wi'  the  crutch.  As  for  backbiting,  what 
I  said  I  said  afore  your  face — and  if  you  was  pretendin  to  be 
asleep,  let  what  you  overheard  be  a  lesson  till  you  never  to 


468  The  Antidote. 

act  so  meanly  again,  for  be  assured,  accordin  to  the  auld 
apothegm,  listeners  never  hear  ony  gude  o'  theirsels.  Do 
they,  Buller? 

Buller.  Seldom. 

Shepherd.  Do  they  ever,  Tickler  ? 

Tickler.  Never. 

Shepherd.  Then  I  propose  that  we  all  get  sober  again. 
Peter — THE  ANTIDOTE  !  It's  time  we  a'  took  it — for  I've  seen 
the  leeds  mair  stationary — half-an-hour  back,  I  was  lookin 
eastward,  but  I'm  sair  mistaen  if  ma  face  be  na  noo  due 
wast. 

North.  Yes— Peter.         [PETER  administers  the  Antidote. 

Shepherd.  Wasna  that  a  blessed  discovery,  Mr.  Buller!  Ae 
glass  o'  THE  ANTIDOTE  taken  in  time  no  only  remedies  the 
past,  but  ensures  the  future — we  may  each  o'  us  toss  aff  ither 
fowre  bumper  tummlers  with  the  same  impunity  as  we 
despatched  their  predecessors- — and  already  what  a  difference 
in  the  steadiness  o'  the  leeds  ! 

Buller.  Hermes'  Molly ! 

Tickler.  The  Great  Elixir  ! 

North.  Oh,  sweet  oblivious  ANTIDOTE  indeed — for  out  of 
the  grave  of  memory  in  bright  resurrection  rises  Hope — and 
on  the  wings  of  Imagination  the  rekindled  Senses  seem  to 
hold  command  over  earth  and  heaven  ! 

Shepherd.  Oh  coofs — coofs — coofs !  wha  abuse  the  wine- 
bibbers  o'  the  Noctes. 

Buller.  Coofs  indeed  ! 

Shepherd.  Never,  Mr.  Buller,  shall  they  breathe  empyrean 
air. 

Buller.  Never. 

Shepherd.  For  them  nover  shall  celestial  dews  distil  from 
evening's  roseate  cloud — 

Buller.  Never. 


The  Glory  of  the  Sunset.  469 

Shepherd.  Nor  setting  suns  their  fancy  ever  fill  with  visions 
born  o'  golden  licht — when  earth,  sea,  cloud,  and  sky  are  a* 
interfused  wi'  ae  speerit — and  that  speerit,  sae  beautifully 
hushed  in  high  repose,  tells  o'  something  within  us  that  is 
divine,  and  therefore  that  will  leeve  for  ever  !  Look !  look  ! 

Butter.  Such  a  sunset ! 

Shepherd.  Let  nae  man  daur  to  word  it.  It's  daurin 
aneuch  even  to  look  at  it.  For  oh  !  ma  freens  !  arena  thae 
the  gates  o'  glory — wide  open  for  departed  sneerits — that 
they  may  sail  in  on  wings  intil  the*  heart  o'  eternal  life !  * 
Let  that  sicht  no  be  lost  on  us. 

North.  It  is  melting  away. 

Shepherd.  Changed — gane !  Anither  sun  has  set — surely 
a  solemn  thocht,  sirs — yet,  come,  let's  be  cheerfu' — Mr. 
North,  let  me  see  a  smile  on  your  face,  man — for,  my  dear 
sir,  I  canna  thole  noo  bein'  lang  melancholy  at  ae  time — for 
every  year  sic  times  are  growin  mair  frequent — and*  I  howp 
the  bonny  Leddy  Moon  'ill  no  be  lang  o'  risin,  nor  do  I  care 
whether  or  no  she  brings  wi'  her  ane,  nane,  or  ten  thousan' 
stars.  Here  comes  the  caffee. 

(Enter  AMBROSE,  with  tea  and  coffee  silver-service.) 

Ambrose.  Tea  or  coffee,  sir  ? 

Shepherd.  Chaclat.     Help  the  rest.     Mr.  North  ? 

North.  Sir! 

Shepherd.  Is  that  America,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Firth  ? 

North.  Commonly  called  the  Kingdom  of  Fife. 

*  "  Come  forth,  ye  drooping  old  men,  look  abroad 

And  see  to  what  fair  countries  ye  are  bound  I 
And  if  some  Traveller,  weary  of  his  road, 
Hath  slept  since  noontide  on  the  gras/sy  ground,— 
Ye  Genii  !    to  his  covert  speed, 
And  wake  him  with  such  gentle  heed 
As  may  attune  his  soul  to  meet  the  dower 
Bestowed  on  this  transcendent  hour  !  " 
WORDSWORTH'S  Evening  Ode. 


470  Over  the  Water. 

Shepherd.  Noo  that  steam's  brocht  to  perfection,  aiblins  I 
may  mak  a  voyage  there  before  I  dee.  Can  you  assure  me 
the  natives  are  no  cannibals  ? 

North.  They  are  cannibals,  James,  and  will  devour  you — 
with  kindness ;  for  to  be  hospitable,  free,  affectionate,  and 
friendly,  is  to  be  Fifdsh. 

Shepherd.  I  see  through  the  blue  haze  toons  and  villages 
alang  the  shores,  the  kintra  seems  cultivated,  but  no  cleared 
— for  yon  maun  be  the  wudds  o'  bonny  Aberdour  atween 
whilk  and  the  shore  o'  Scotland  sleep  the  banes  o'  Sir  Patrick 
Spens  and  a'  his  peers.  We  can  write  na  sic  ballant  noo-a- 
days  as — 

"The  king  sat  in  Dunfermline  Tower, 
Drinking  tlie  blood-red  wine." 

The  simplest  pawthos,  sir,  sinks  deepest  in  the  heart — and 
lies  there — far  down  aneath  the  fleetin  storms  o'  life — just  as 
that,  wreck  itsel  is  lyin  noo,  bits  o'  weed,  and  aim,  and  banes, 
lodged  immovably  amang  other  ruefu'  matter  at  the  bottom 
o'  the  restless  sea. 

Bidler.  Exquisite  ! 

Shepherd.  Eh !  what  said  ye,  sir  ?  did  ye  apply  that  epithet 
to  my  sentiment,  or  to  your  sherry  ? 

Buller.  To  both.  United,  "  they  sank  like  music  in  my 
heart." 

Shepherd.  Here's  to  you,  Mr.  Buller.  Did  I  ever  ask,  sir,  if 
you're  ony  relation  to  the  Bullers  o'  Buchan  ?  * 

Buller.   Cousins. 

Shepherd.  I  thocht  sae,  sir,  frae  the  sound  o'  your  vice. 

*  "  On  the  east  coast  of  Scotland,  a  few  miles  south  of  Peterhead,  are  the 
Bullers  of  Buchan,  a  nearly  round  basin,  about  thirty  yards  wide,  formed 
In  a  hollow  rock  which  projects  into  the  sea,  towards  which  there  is  an 
arch  by  which  the  waves  enter.  It  is  open  also  at  the  top,  round  which 
there  is  a  narrow  path  about  thirty  yards  from  the  water  ;  when  the  sea  is 
high  in  a  storm,  this  scene  is  exceedingly  grand."— Penny  Cyclopedia. 


The  Shepherd  in  London.  471 

You're  a  fine  bauld    dashin  family,  and  fling  the  cares  o'  the 
warld  aff  frae  your  sides  like  rocks. 

Butter.  Scotland  seems  to  me,  if  possible,  improved  since 
my  last  visit — even 

"  Stately  Edm borough,  throned  on  crags'  " 

more  magnificently  wears  her  diadem. 

Shepherd.  Embro'  as  a  town,  takin't  by  itsel,  's  no  muckle 
amiss,  but  I  canna  help  considerin't  but  a  clachan  *  sin'  my 
visit  to  Lunnon.  Mercy  on  us,  what  a  roar  o'  life  !  Ane 
would  think  the  haill  habitable  yerth  had  spewed  its  haill 
population  intil  that  whirlpool !  or  that  that  whirlpool  had 
sookt  it  a'  in — mair  like  a  Maelstrom  than  a  Metropolis. 

North.  There's  poetry  for  you  ! 

Butter.  It  is. 

Shepherd.  Whales  and  mennows  a'  are  yonner,  sir,  dwinnled 
doun  or  equaleezed  intil  the  same  size  by  the  motion  o' 
millions,  and  a'  sense  o'  individuality  lost.  The  verra  first 
morning  I  walked  out  o'  the  hotel  I  clean  forgot  I  was  James 
Hogg. 

Butter.  Yet,  a  few  mornings  after,  Mr.  Hogg,  allow  me 
to  say,  that  the  object  most  thought  of  there  was  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd. 

Shepherd.  Na — no  on  the  streets.  Folk  keepit  shoalin 
past  me — me  in  ae  current  o'  flesh,  and  them  in  anither — 
without  a  single  ee  ever  seemin  to  see  me — a'  een  lookin 
straucht  forrit — a'  faces  in  full  front, — sae  that  I  couldna 
help  askin  mysel,  Will  a'  this  break  up— is  it  a' but  the  maist 
wonderfu'  o'  dreams  ? 

Butter.  But  in  the  Park. 

Shepherd.  Ay  !  that  was  a  different  story — I  cam  to  my 
seven  senses  on  Sunday  in  the  Park — and  I  had  need  o'  them 

Clachan— a.  small  village. 


472  The    Shepherd  in  the    Park. 

a' — for  gif  I  glowered,  they  glowered — and  wherever  I  went, 
I  couldna  but  see  that  I  was  the  centre — 

Tickler.  "  The  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes." 

Shepherd.  O  man  !  wheesht.  The  centre — the  navel  o* 
the  great  wheel  that  keepit  circumvolving  round,  while  rays, 
like  spokes,  innumerable  frae  leddies'  een  shot  towards  me 
frae  the  circumference,  and  hadna  my  heart  been  pierced,  it 
wad  hae  been  no  o'  wudd,  but  o'  stane. 

North.  0  thou  Sabbath  breaker  ! 

Shepherd.  That  thocht  saddened  me,  but  I  shook  it  aff,  and 
T  howp  I  may  be  forgiven,  for  it  wasna  my  ain  faut,  but  the 
faut  o'  that  Lord  that  munted  me  on  his  ain  charger,  and 
would  show  me — whether  I  would  or  no — in  the  Dress- 
Rings. 

Tickler.  And  how  were  you  dressed,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Wiser-like  than  you  in  your  ordinar — just  in 
the  Sabbath  claes  I  gang  in  to  Yarrow  kirk. 

North.  Simple  son  of  genius  !     Buller,  is  he  not  a  jewel  ? 

gutter.  He  is. 

Shepherd.  Fie,  lads — think  shame  o'  yoursels — for  I  ken 
that  ahint  ma  back  you  ca'  me  a  rouch  diamond. 

North.  But  the  setting,  my  dear  James  !  How  farther  were 
you  set? 

Shepherd.  I  hadna  on  the  blue  bannet — for  I  had  nae  wush 
to  be  singular,  sir — but  the  plaid  was  atower  my  shouthers — • 

North.  And  across  your  manly  breast,  my  Shepherd,  which 
must  have  felt  then  and  there,  as  here  and  now,  entitled  to 
beat  with  the  pride  of  conscious  genius  and  worth. 

Shepherd.  I  shanna  say  that  I  wasna  proud  but  I  shall 
say  that  I  was  happy  :  for  the  Englishers  I  hae  ever  held  to 
be  the  noblest  race  o'  leevin  men  except  the  Scotch — and  for- 
by  that,  sirs,  a  poet  is  nae  mair  a  poet  in  his  ain  kintra  than 
a  prophet  a  prophet ;  but  yonner  my  inspiration  was  acknowl 


The  Shepherd  in  the  Park.  473 

edged,  and  I  thocht  mair  o'  mysel  as  the  owther  o'  the 
Queen's  Wake,  five  hunder  miles  awa  frae  the  forest,  than  I 
ever  had  ony  visible  reason  to  do  sae  in  the  city  ower  which 
Mary  Stuart  ance  rang,*  and  in  the  very  shadow  o'  Holyrood. 

North.  How  you  must  have  eclipsed  Count  d'Orsay !  f 

Shepherd.  I  eclipsed  nane.  There's  nae  eclipsin  yonner — 
for  the  heaven  was  a'  shinin  wi'  mony  thousan'  stars.  But  the 
sugh  went  that  the  Ettrick  Shepherd  was  in  the  Park — the 
Shepherd  o'  the  Wake,  and  The  Pilgrims,  and  Kilmeny — 

North.     And  the  Noctes — 

Shepherd.  Ay,  o'  the  Noctes — and  what  were  they  ever,  or 
wad  they  ever  again  hae  been,  withouten  your  am  auld 
Shepherd  ? 

North.   Dark — dark — irrecoverably  dark  ! 

Shepherd.  Your  haun.  Thousans  o'  trees  were  there — but 
a*  I  kent  o'  them,  as  they  gaed  gliding  greenly  by,  was  that 
they  were  beautifu' ;  as  for  the  equipages,  they  seemed  a'  ae 
equipage — 

Tickler.  Your  cortege. 

Shepherd.  Wheesht — wheesht — 0  man,  wunna  ye  wheesht ! 
— Representin —  containin —  a'  the  wealth,  health,  rank, 
beauty,  grace,  genius,  virtue  o'  England — 

Tickler.  Virtue  ! 

Shepherd.  Yes — virtue.  Their  een  were  like  the  een  o' 
angels ;  and  if  virtue  wasna  smilin  yonner,  then  'twould  be 
vain  to  look  for  her  on  this  side  o'  heaven. 

North.  I  fear,  my  dearest  Shepherd,  that  you  forgot  the 
Flowers  of  the  Forest. 

Shepherd.  Clean.  And  what  for  no  ?  Wasna  I  a  stranger 
in  Lunnon  ?  and  would  I  alloo  fancy  to  flee  awa  wi'  me  out 

*  Rang — reigned. 

t  This  accomplished  gentleman,  and  leader  of  the  fashion  in  his  day,  died 
In  1862. 


474  "The  Forest  for  me!" 

the  gates  o*  Paradise  ?  Na — she  couldna  hae  dune  that,  had 
she  striven  to  harl  me  by  the  hair  o'  the  head.  Oh,  sir! 
sufficient  for  the  hour  was  the  beauty  thereof — sowl  and 
senses  were  a'  absorbed  in  what  I  saw — and  I  became — 

Tickler.  The  Paragon  of  the  Park. 

Shepherd.  Wull  you  no  fine  him,  sir,  in  saut  and  water? 

North.  Silence,  Tim  ! 

Shepherd.  He  disturbs  one  like  the  Death-Tick. 

North.  Well,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  The  Forest  for  me,  after  a'  !  Sae  would  it  hae 
been,  sir,  even  had  I  been  ca'd  up  to  Lunnon  in  my  youth  or 
prime.  Out  o'  utter  but  no  lang  forgetfulness  it  would  hae 
risen  up,  stretchin  itsel  out  in  a'  its  length  and  breadth,  wi' 
a'  its  lochs  and  mountains,  and  hills  and  streams — St.  Mary's 
and  the  Yarrow,  the  dearest  o'  them  a' — and  wafted  me  alang 
wi't,  far  an0  and  awa  frae  Lunnon,  like  a  man  in  a  warld  o' 
his  ain,  swoomin  northward  through  the  air,  wi'  motion  true 
to  that  ae  airt,  and  no  deviatin  for  sake  o'  the  brichtest 
southern  star. 

Buller.  Most  beautiful. 

Shepherd.  If  it  would  hae  been  sae  even  then,  Mr.  Buller, 
hoo  much  mair  maun  it  hae  been  sae  but  some  three  simmers 
back,  when  my  hair,  though  a  gey  dour  broon,  was  yielding  to 
the  grey  ?  You  was  never  at  Mount  Benger,  sir,  nor  Altrive, 
and  the  mair's  the  pity,  for  happy  should  we  a'  be  to  see  sic 
a  fine,  free,  freenly  fallow — and  o'  sic  bricht  pairts — though 
the  weans  michtna  just  at  first  follow  your  English — 

Buller.  For  their  sakes,  my  dear  Shepherd — forgive  my 
familiarity — I  should  learn  their  own  Doric  in  a  day. 

Shepherd.  That  you  wad,  my  dear  Mr.  Buller ;  and  thinkna 
ye,  gin  if  I  ever,  for  a  flaff,  *  in  the  Park,  forgot  my  ain  cosy 
bield,  that  the  thocht  on't  cam  na  back  on  my  heart — ay,  the 

»  Flaff— iustant. 


A  Monosyllable.  475 

verra  sicht  o't  afore  my  een — dearer  than  ever  for  sake  o'  the 
wee  bodies  speerin  at  their  mother  when  faither  was  comin 
hame — and  for  sake  o'  her,  who,  for  my  sake,  micht  at  that 
moment  be  lettin  drap  a  kiss  on  their  heads. 

Tickler.  Now  that  we  have  seen  the  Shepherd  in  the  Park, 
pray,  James,  exhibit  yourself  at  the  Play. 

Shepherd.  The  last  exhibition  you  made   o'  yoursel,  Mr. 
Tickler,  at  the  Play,  as  you  ca't — meanin,  I  presume,  in  the 
Playhouse — wasna  quite  sae  creditable  as  your  freens  wad 
hae  wished — sittin  in  ane  o'  the  upper  boxes  wi'  a  pented 
wax-doll — no  to  ca'  them  waur — on  ilka  haun — 
North.  Is  that  a  true  bill,  Tickler  ? 
Tickler.  A  lie. 

Shepherd.  I  never  answer  that  monosyllable  * — but  canna 
help  followin't  up,  on  the  present  occasion,  wi'  an  apothegm  , 
to  wit,  that  a  man's  morals  may  be  judged  by  his  mainners. 
But  I  tell  you,  Mr.  North,  and  you,  Mr.  Buller,  that  I  was 
in  ane  of  the  houses — ance,  and  but  ance  ;  I  gaed  there  out  o' 
regard  to  some  freens,  and  I  ever  after  staid  awa  out  o'  regard 
to  mysel — for  o'  a'  the  sichts  that  ever  met  my  een,  there 
never  was  the  like  o'  yon;  and  I  wonder  hoo  men-folk  and 
women-folk,  sittin  side  by  side,  could  thole't  in  a  public 
theatre. 

[There  is  silence  for  a  time.  NORTH  rings  the  silver  bell,  and 
appear  PETER  and  AMBROSE  with  the  cold  round,  ham  and 
fowls  and  tongues,  and  the  unassuming  but  not  unsubstantial 
et-ceteras  of  such  a  small  snug  Midsummer  supper  as  you 
may  suppose  suitable  at  a  Nodes  on  the  Leads  of  the ' 
Lodge.  NORTH  nods,  and  PETER  lets  on  the  gas. 

*  "  But  ae  word  explains  a'— genius— genius— wttll  a'  the  metaphizziana  in 
the  warld  ever  expound  that  mysterious  monosyllable  ? 

"  Tickler.    Monosyllable,  James,  did  you  say  ? 

"  Shepherd.  Ay— monosyllable  !  Doesna  that  mean  a  word  o'  three  syll* 
bles? 

"  Tickler.  It  is  all  one  in  the  Greek,  my  dear  James." 


476  The  Tailors'  Strike. 

Shepherd.  Fareweel  to  the  moon  and  stars. 

North.  What  will  you  eat,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  I'll  tak  some  hen.  Mr.  Buller,  gie  me  the  twa 
legs  arid  the  twa  wings  and  the  breist — and  then  haun  the 
hen  ower  to  Mr.  Tickler. 

[They  settle  down  into  serious  eating.     The  SHEPHERD  taking 
the  lead — hard  pressed  by  NORTH. 

North.  James,  what  is  your  opinion  of  the  state  of  public 
affairs  ? 

Shepherd.  O,  sir !  but  yon  was  like  to  be  a  great  national 
calamity  ! 

North.  Probably  it  was,  James.     Pray,  what  was  it? 

Tickler.  The  Plague  ? 

Shepherd.  Far  waur  than  the  Plague — 'cause  threatenin  to 
be  mair  universal — though,  like  the  Plague,  it  was  in  Lunnon 
— thank  heaven — where  it  first  brak  out — THE  TAILORS' 
STRIKE  ! 

North.  Twas  an  appalling  event — and,  like  the  great 
earthquake  at  Lisbon,  was,  no  doubt,  felt  all  over 
Europe. 

Shepherd.  The  rural  districts,  as  you  ca'  them,  Mr.  North, 
haena  aye  escaped  sic  a  calamity.  I  weel  remember,  in  the 
year  wan,  *  a  like  visitation  in  the  Forest.  It  wasna  on  sae 
big  a  scale — for  the  boonds  wadna  admit  o'  its  bein  sae — but 
the  meesery  was  nae  less — though  contrackit  within  a  nar 
rower  circle. 

Tickler.  Diffused  over  a  wider  sphere. 

North.    When? 

Tickler.  And  how  ? 

Shepherd.  The  Tailor  at  Yarrow  Ford,   without    having 

*  Wan— one.    "  The  year  wan  "—an  ellipsis  for  the  year  1801. 


The  Strike  in  the  Forest.  477 

shown  ony  symptoms  o'  the  phoby  the  nicht  afore,  ae  morning 
at  sax  o'clock — strack  ! 

North.  How  dreadful ! 

Shepherd.  You  may  weel  say  that,  sir.  'Twas  just  at 
the  dawn  o'  the  Season  o'  Tailors,  when  a'  ower  the  Forest 
there  begins  the  makin  o'  new  claes  and  the  repairin  o' 
auld — 

North.  Making — as  Bobby  says — 

"  The  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new.*' 

Shepherd.  The  maist  critical  time  o'  the  haill  year. 

North.  Well,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  At  sax  he  strack — and  by  nine  it  was  kent  frae 
Selkirk  to  the  Grey-Mare's  Tail.  A'  at  ance — ordinar  claes 
only — but  mairrage-shoots  and  murnins  were  at  a  deid 
staun.  A'  the  folk  in  the  Forest  saw  at  ance  that  it  was  im 
possible  decently  to  get  either  married  or  buried.  For,  wad 
ye  believe't,  the  mad  body  was  aff  ower  the  hills,  and  bat* 
Watty  o'  Ettrick  Pen  !  Of  coorse  he  strack — and  in  his  turn 
aff  by  a  short  cut  to  the  Lochs,  and  bat  Bauldy  o'  Bourhope, 
wha  loupt  frae  the  buird  like  a  puddock.  and  flang  the  guse 
in  the  fire,  swearin  by  the  shears,  as  he  flourished  them  round 
his  head,  and  then  sent  them  intil  the  ass-hole,  that  a'  man 
kind  micht  thenceforth  gang  nakit  for  him  up  to  the  airm- 
pits  in  snaw ! 

North.  We  are  all  listening  to  you,  James,  with  the  most 
intense  interest. 

Shepherd.  The  Three  Tailors  formed  themsels  intil  a  union 
~and  boond  themsels  by  an  aith — the  words  o'  which  hae 
never  transpired — but  nae  dout  they  were  fearsome  and 
they  ratified  it — it  has  been  said — wi'  three  draps  each  o' 
their  ain  bluid,  let  out  wi'  the  prick  o'  a  needle — no  to  shue 


478  The  Forest  Rises 

anither  steek  gin  the  Forest  were  to  fa'  doun  afore  them  on 
its  knees  ! 

North.    Impious ! 

Shepherd.  But  the  Forest  had  nae  sic  intention — and 
bauldly  stood  up  again'  the  Rebellion.  Auld  Mr.  Laidlaw — 
the  faither  o'  your  freens,  Watty,  George,  and  James — took 
the  lead — and  there  was  a  gatherin  on  Mount  Benger — the 
same  farm  that,  by  a  wonderfu'  coincidence,  I  afterwards 
came  to  hauld — at  which  resolutions  were  sworn  by  the 
Forest  no  to  yield,  while  there  was  breath  in  its  body,  though 
back  and  side  micht  gang  bare.  I  there  made  ma  maiden 
speech  ;  for  it  wasna  ma  maiden  speech — though  it  passed  for 
such,  as  often  happens — the  ane  ye  heard,  sir — ma  first  in  the 
Forum. 

North.  I  confess  I  had  my  suspicions  at  the  time,  James, 
I  thought  I  saw  the  arts  of  the  sophist  in  those  affected  hesi 
tations — and  that  I  frequently  heard,  breaking  through  the 
skilful  pauses,  the  powers,  omnipotent  in  self-possession,  of 
the  practised  orator. 

Shepherd.  Never  was  there  sic  a  terrible  treeo  as  them  o' 
Yarrow  Ford,  Ettrick  Pen,  and  Bourhope  !  Three  decenter 
tailor  lads,  a  week  afore,  ye  micht  hae  searched  for  in  vain 
ower  the  wide  warld.  The  streck  changed  them  into  demons. 
They  cursed,  they  swore,  they  drank,  they  danced,  they 
focht — first  wi'  whatever  folk  happened  to  fa'  in  wi'  them  on 
the  stravaig — and  then,  castin  out  amang  theirsels,  wi'  ane 
anither,  till  they  had  a'  three  black  een — and  siccan  noses  ! 

Tickler.  'Tis  difficult  for  an  impartial,  because  unconcerned, 
spectator  to  divine  the  drift  of  the  different  parties  in  a  fight 
of  three. 

Shepherd.  They  couldna  ha  divined  it  theirsels — for  there 
was  nae  drift  amang  them  to  divine.  There  they  were  a' 
three  lounderin  at  hap-hazard,  and  then  gaun  heid-ower-heels 


Against  the  Tailors.  479 

on  the  tap  o'  ane  anither,  or  colleckit  in  a  knot  in  the  glaur  ; 
and  I  couldna  help  sayin  to  Mr.  Bryden — father  o'  your 
favorite  Watty  Bryden,  to  whom  ye  gied  the  tortoise-shell 
mull — "  Saw  ye  ever,  sir,  a  Tredds-  Union  like  that." 

Tickler.   Why  not  import  ? 

Shepherd.  As  they  hae  dune  since  in  Luunon  frae  Ger 
many  ?  Just  because  naebody  thocht  o't.  Importin  tailors  to 
ensure  free  tredd  !  ! 

Tickler.  And  how  fared  the  Forest  ? 

Shepherd.  No  weel.  Some  folk  began  tailorin  for  theirsels 
— but  there  was  a  strong  prejudice  against  it — and  to  them 
that  made  the  attempp  the  result  was  baith  ridiculous  and 
painfu',  and  in  ae  case,  indeed,  had  nearly  proved  fatal. 

Tickler.  James,  how  was  that  ? 

Shepherd.  Imagine  yoursel,  Mr.  Tickler,  in  a  pair  o'  breeks, 
wi'  the  back  pairt  afore — the  seat  o'  honor  transferred  to 
the  front — • 

North.  Let  us  all  so  imagine,  Tickler. 

Shepherd.  They  shaped  them  sae, without  bein'  able  to  help 
it,  for  it's  a  kittle  airt  cuttin  out. 

Tickler.  But  how  fatal  ? 

Shepherd.  Dandy  o'  Dryhope,  in  breeks  o'  his  ain  gettin 
up,  rashly  daured  to  ford  the  Yarrow — but  they  grupped  him 
sae  ticht  atween  the  fork,  that  he  could  mak  nae  head  gain'* 
the  water  comin  doun  gey  strung,  and  he  was  soopit  aff  his 
feet,  and  taen  out  mair  like  a  bundle  o'  claes  than  a  man. 

Tickler.  How  ? 

Shepherd.  We  listered  him  like  a  fish. 

North.  ".Time  and  the  hour  run  through  the  roughest 
day  ! " 

Shepherd.  And  a'  things  yerthly  hae  an  end.  Sae  had  the 
streck.  To  mak  a  lang  story  short — the  Forest  stood  it  out 

*  Gain,— against. 


480  Watty  o  the  Pen 

— the  tailors  giecl  in — and  the  Tredd's-Union  fell  to  pieces. 
But  no  before  the  Season  o'  Tailors  was  lang  ower,  and  pairt 
o'  the  simmer  too — for  they  didna  return  to  their  wark  till 
the  Langest  Day.  It  was  years  afore  the  rebels  recovered 
frae  the  want  o'  wage  and  the  waste  o'  pose  ;  *  but  atween 
1804  and  1808  a'  three  married,  and  a'  three,  as  you  ken, 
Mr.  North — for  I  hae  been  direckin  mysel  to  Mr.  Tickler 
and  Mr.  Buller — hae  been  ever  sin'  syne  weel-behaved  and 
weel-to-do — and  I  never  see  ony  o'  them  without  their  tellin 
me  to  gie  you  their  compliments,  mair  especially  the  tailor 
o'  Yarrow  Ford, — for  Watty  o'  the  Pen — him,  Mr.  Buller, 
that  used  to  be  ca'd  the  Flyiri  Tailor  o'  Ettrick — sometimes 
fears  that  Christopher  North  hasna  got  ower  yet  the  beatin 
he  gied  him  in  the  ninety-odd — the  year  Louis  XVI.  was 
guillotined — at  hap-stap-and-loup. 

North.     He  never  beat  me,  Mr.  Buller. 

Buller.  From  what  I  have  heard  of  you  in  your  youth,  sir, 
indeed  I  can  hardly  credit  it.  Pardon  my  skepticism,  Mr. 
Hogg. 

Shepherd.  You  may  be  as  great  a  skeptic  as  you  choose — 
but  Watty  bate  Kitty  a'  till  sticks. 

North.  You  have  most  unkindly  persisted,  Hogg,  during 
all  these  forty  years,  in  refusing  to  take  into  account  my 
corns — 

Shepherd.  Corns  or  nae  corns,  Watty  bate  you  a'  till  sticks. 

North.  Then  I  had  been  fishing  all  day  up  to  the  middle  in 
the  water,  with  a  creel  forty  pound  weight  on  my  back— 

Shepherd.  Creel  or  nae  creel,  Watty  bate  you  a?  to  sticks. 

North.  And  I  had  a  hole  in  my  heel  you  might  have  put 
your  hand  into — 

Shepherd.  Sound  heels  or  sair  heels,  Watty  bate  you  a'  to 
sticks. 

*  Pose— a  secret  hoard  of  money  ;  savings. 


Beat  North  to  Sticks.  481 

North.  And  I  sprained  one  of  my  ankles  at  the  first  rise. 

Shepherd.  Though  you  had  sprained  baith,  Watty  wad  hae 
bate  you  a'  till  sticks. 

North.  And  those  accursed  corduroys  cut  me — 

Shepherd.  Dinna  curse  the  corduroys — for  in  breeks  or  out 
o'  breeks,  Watty  bate  ye  a'  till  sticks. 

North.  I  will  beat  him  yet  for  a — 

Shepherd.  You  shanna  be  alloo'd  to  mak  sic  a  fule  o  your- 
sel.  You  were  ance  the  best  louper  I  ever  saw — excepp  ane 
— and  that  ane  was  wee  Watty  o'  the  Pen — the  Flyin  Tailor 
o'  Ettrick — and  he  bate  ye  a'  till  sticks. 

North.  Well — I  have  done,  sir.  All  people  are  mad  on 
some  one  point  or  other — and  your  insanity — 

Shepherd.  Mad  or  no  mad,  Watty  bate  you  a'  till  sticks. 

North.  Peter,  let  off  the  gas.  (Rising  with  marked  dis 
pleasure.) 

Shepherd.  Oh  man  !  but  that's  puir  spite  !  Biddin  Peter 
let  aff  the  gas,  merely  'cause  I  tauld  Mr.  Buller  what  a'  the 
Forest  kens  to  be  true,  that  him  the  bairns  noo  ca'  the 
AULD  HIRPLIN  HURCHEON,  half-a-century  sin',  at  hap-stap- 
and-loup,  bate  Christopher  North  a'  till  sticks. 

North  (with  great  vehemence).   Let  off  the  gas,  you  stone  ! 

Shepherd.  That's  pitifu' !  Ca'in  a  man  a  stane !  a  man 
that  has  been  sae  lang  too  in  his  service — and  that  has  gien 
him  nae  provocation — for  it  wasna  Peter  but  me  that  was 
obleeged  to  keep  threepin  that  Watty  o'  the  Pen — by  folk  o* 
my  time  o'  life  never  ca'd  onything  less  than  the  Flying 
Tailor  o'  Ettrick,  though  by  bairns  never  ca'd  onything  mair 
but  the  Auld  Hirplin  Hurcheon,  at  hap-stap-and-loup — on 
fair  level  mossy  grun' — bate  him  a'  till  sticks. 

North  (in  a  voice  of  thunder).  You  son  of  a  sea-gun,  let  off 
the  gas. 

Shepherd.  Passion's   aften  figurative,   and  aye    forgetfu' 


482  Sunrise  on  the  Sea. 

But  I  fear  he'll  be  breakin  a  bluid-veshel — sae  I'll  remind 
him  o'  the  siller  bell.  Peter  has  orders  never  to  shaw  his 
neb  but  as  soun'  o'  the  siller  bell. — Sir,  you've  forgotten 
the  siller  bell.  Play  tingle — tingle — tingle — ting. 

North  (ringing  the  silver  bell).  Too  bad,  James.  Peter,  let 
off  the  gas.  [PETER  lets  off  the  gas. 

Shepherd.  Ha !  the  bleeze  o'  morn  !  Amazin !  'Twas 
shortly  after  sunset  when  the  gas  was  let  on — and  noo  that 
the  gas  is  let  aff,  lo  !  shortly  after  sunrise  ! 

Buller.  With  us  there  has  been  no  night. 

Shepherd.  Yesterday  was  the  Twunty-first  o'  June — the 
Langest  Day.  We  could  hae  dune  without  artificial  licht — 
for  the  few  hours  o'  midnicht  were  but  a  gloamin — and  we 
could  hae  seen  to  read  prent. 

Buller.  A  deep  dew. 

North.  As  may  be  seen  by  the  dry  lairs  in  the  wet  grass  of 
those  cows  up  and  at  pasture. 

Shepherd.  Naebody  else  stirrtn.  Look,  there's  a  hare 
washin  her  face  like  a  cat  wi'  her  paw.  Eh  man !  look  at 
her  three  leverets,  like  as  mony  wee  bit  bears. 

Buller.  I  had  no  idea  there  were  so  many  singing  birds  so 
near  the  surburbs  of  a  great  city. 

Shepherd.  Hadna  ye  ?  In  Scotland  we  ca'  that  the  skreigh 
o'  day. 

North.  What  has  become  of  the  sea  ? 

Shepherd.  The  sea !  somebody  has  opened  the  sluice,  and 
let  aff  the  water.  Na — there  it's — fasten  your  een  upon  yon 
great  green  shadow — for  that's  Inchkeith — and  you'll  sune 
come  to  discern  the  sea  waverin  round  it,  as  if  the  air  grew 
glass,  and  the  glass  water,  while  the  water  widens  out  intil 
the  Firth,  and  the  Firth  awa  intil  the  Main.  Is  yon  North 
Berwick  Law  or  the  Bass — or  baith — or  naither — or  a  cape 
o'  cloudland,  or  a  thocht  ? 


A  Scottish  Breakfast.  483 

North.— 

"  Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn." 

Shepherd.  See  !  Specks — like  black  water-flees.  The  boats 
o'  the  Newheeven  fishermen.  Their  wives  are  snorin  yet 
wi'  their  head  in  mutches — but  wull  sune  be  risin  to  fill 
their  creels.  Mr.  Buller,  was  you  ever  in  our  Embro'  Fish- 
Market  ? 

Buller.  No.     Where  is  it,  sir  ? 

Shepherd.  In  the  Parliament  Hoose. 

Buller.  In  the  Parliament  House  ? 

Shepherd.  Are  you  daft  ?  Arieath  the  North  Brig. 

Buller.   You  said  just  now  it  was  in  the  Parliament  House. 

Shepherd.  Either  you  or  me  has  been  dreamin.  But,  Mr. 
North,  I'm  desperate  hungry — are  ye  no  intendin  to  gie  us 
ony  breakfast  ? 

North  (ringing  the  silver  bell).  Lo  !  and  behold ! 
(Enter  PETER,  AMBROSE,  KING  PEPIN,  SIR  DAVID  GAM, 
and  TAPPYTOORIE,  with  trays.) 

Shepherd.  Rows  het  frae  the  oven  !  Wheat  scones !  Barley 
scones  !  Wat  and  dry  tost !  Cookies  !  Baps  !  Muffins  ! 
Loaves  and  fishes  !  Rizzars  !  Finnans  !  Kipper  !  Speldrins  ! 
Herring!  Marmlet !  Jeely !  Jam!  Ham!  Lamb!  Tongue! 
Beef  hung !  Chickens !  Fry !  Pigeon  pie !  Crust  and 
broon  aside  the  Roon' — but  sit  ye  doun — no — freens,  let's 
staun' — haud  up  your  haun — bless  your  face — North,  gie's  a 
grace. — (NORTH  says  grace.)  Noo  let's  fa'  too — but  hooly — 
hooly — hooly — what  vision  this  !  What  vision  this  !  An 
Apparition  or  a  Christian  Leddy  !  I  ken,  I  ken  her  by  her 
curtshy — did  that  face  no  tell  her  name  and  her  nature. — Oh 
deign,  Mem,  to  sit  doun  aside  the  Shepherd. — Pardon  me — 
tak  the  head  o'  the  table,  ma  honored  Mem — and  let  the 
Shepherd  sit  doun  aside  YOU — and  may  I  mak  sae  bauld  as 


184  A  Creature  of  the  Element. 

to  introduce  Mr.  Buller  to  you,  Mem  ?  Mr.  Buller,  clear  your 
een — for  on  the  Leads  o'  the  Lodge,  in  face  o*  heaven  and 
he  risin  sun,  I  noo  introduce  you  till  Mrs.  GENTLE. 

North  (starting  and  looking  wildly  round).  Ha ! 

Shepherd.  She's  gane  ! 

North  (recovering  some  of  his  composure).  Too  bad,  James. 

Shepherd.     Saw  your  nocht  ?     Saw  naebody  ocht  ? 

Omnes.  Nothing. 

Shepherd.  A  cretur  o'  the  element !  like  a'  the  ither  love 
liest  sichts  that  veesit  the  een  o'  us  mortals — but  the  dream 
o'  a  dream !  But,  thank  heaven,  a's  no  unsubstantial  in  this 
warld  o'  shadows.  Were  ony  o'  us  to  say  sae,  this  breakfast 
would  gie  him  the  lee  !  Noo,  Gurney,  mind  hoo  ye  extend 
your  short-haun. 

Small  still  Voice.   Ay,  ay,  sir. 

duller.  "  Oh  Gurney !  shall  I  call  thee  bird,  or  but  a  wan 
dering  voice ! " 

North.— 

"  O  blessed  Bird  !  the  world  we  pace 

Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial  faery-place, 

That  is  fit  home  for  Thee  t " 


XXVII. 
A  DINNER  IN  THE  FOREST. 

SCENE  I. — The  Shepherd's  Study,  Altrive. — The  SHEPHERD 
seated  at  dinner.  Time — Six  o' Clock. — AMBROSE  in 
waiting. 

(Enter,  hurriedly,  NORTH  and  TICKLER.) 

Shepherd.  What  for  keep  ye  folk  waitin  in  this  way,  sirs, 
for  denner !  and  it  past  sax !  Sax  is  a  daft-like  hour  for 
denner  in  the  Forest,  but  I'm  aye  wullin  to  humor  fules 
that  happen  to  be  reseedin  in  ma  ain  house  at  hame.  Whare 
were  you — and  what  hae  ye  been  about  ?  No  *  shavin  at 
least — for  twa  sic  bairds  I  dinna  remember  ha'in  witnessed 
sin'  I  was  in  Wales — towards  the  close  o'  the  century — and 
they  belanged  to  twa  he-goats  glowerin  ower  at  me  frae  the 
ruins  o'  Dolbaldron  Castle.  Tak  your  chairs — ye  Jews. 
Moses  !  sit  you  on  my  richt  haun — and  Aaron  !  sit  you  on 
<ny  left.  [NORTH  and  TICKLER  sit  down  as  commanded. 

North.  'Tis  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  have  been  one 
moment  behind  the  hour. 

Shepherd.  I  believ't.  For  you  can  regulat  your  stamack 
like  a  timepiece.  It  gangs  as  true's  a  chronometer — and  on 
board  a  ship  you  could  tell  by't  to  a  nicety  when  she  would 
reach  ony  particular  port.  I  daursay  it's  correck  the  noo  by 

•  NO— not. 

485 


486  The  Dinner-bell  at  Altrive. 

the  sun — but  I  aye  mak  Girrzzy  bate  *  the  girdle  twa-three 
minutes  afore  the  chap  o'  the  knock,  f 

Tickler.  Bate  the  girdle  ? 

Shepherd.  Ay,  just  sae,  sir — bate  the  girdle.  I  used  to 
hae  a  bell  hung  on  the  bourtree  at  the  gable-end — the  auld 
Yarrow  kirk-bell — but  it  got  intil  its  dotage,  its  tongue  had 
the  palsy,  it's  cheeks  were  crackit — and  pu'  the  rape  as  you 
would,  it's  vice  was  as  puir's  as  a  pan's.  Then  the  lichtnin, 
that  maun  hae  had  little  to  do  that  day,  melted  it  intil  the 
shape  o'  an  aim  icicle,  and  it  grew  perfeckly  useless — sae  I 
got  a  drum  that  ance  belanged  to  the  militia,  and  for  some 
seasons  it  diverted  the  echoes  that  used  to  tak  it  aff  no  amiss, 
whether  braced  or  itherwise — but  it  too  waxed  auld  and 
impotent,  and  you  micht  as  weel  for  ony  music  that  was  in't, 
hae  bate  the  kitchen-dresser  wi'  the  lint-beetle — sae  I  then 
got  a  gong  sent  ower  frae  India  frae  your  freen  and  mine, 
Dr.  Gray — God  bless  him — and  for  a  lang,  deep,  hollow 
trummlin,  sea-like,  and  thunderous  sound,  it  bate  a'  that 
ever  was  heard  in  this  kintra — but  it  created  sic  a  dis 
turbance  far  and  wide,  that,  sair  against  my  wull,  I  had  to 
shut  it  up  in  the  garret. 

North.  Wherefore,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  sae  like  thunner  that 
folk  far  aff  couldna  tell  whether  it  was  thunner  or  no ;  and 
I've  kent  them  yoke  their  carts  in  a  hurry  to  carry  in  their 
hay  afore  it  was  dry  for  stacking,  fearing  a  plump.  Ae  Sun 
day  the  sound  keepit  a?  the  folk  frae  the  kirk,  and  aften  they 
wadna  ventur  on  the  fuirds,  in  dread  o'  a  sudden  spate  frae 
a  water-spoot.  I  learnt  at  last  to  bate  it  more  gently  ;  but 
then  it  was  sae  like  the  sound  o'  a  bill  afore  he  breaks  out 
intil  the  bellow,  that  a'  the  kye  in  the  forest  grew  red-wild- 
mad ;  sae  then  I  had  to  take  to  batin  the  girdle — an  idea 

*  Bale— heat.  t  Chap  o'  the  knock— striking  of  the  clock. 


The  Covers  are  lifted.  487 

that  was  suggested  to  me  ae  day  on  the  swarmin  o'  a  tap 
swarm  o'  a  skep  o'  bees  in  the  garden — and  I  find  that  on  a 
clear  day  sic  as  this,  when  the  atmosphere's  no  clogged,  that 
it  answers  as  weel's  either  the  kirk-bell,  the  drum,  or  the 
gong.  You  would  hear't  ayont  the  knowe,  sirs  ;  and  wasna't 
bonny  music? 

Arcades  Ambo.  Beautiful,  exceedingly. 

Shepherd.  If  her  I  needna  name  had  been  at  hame,  there 
would  hae  been  a  denner  on  the  table  wordier*  o'  my  twa 
maist  esteemed  and  dearest  freens  ;  but  I  howp  wi'  sic  as  we 
hae — without  her  mair  immediate  yet  prospective  care — you 
will  be  able  to  make  a  fend.f 

North.  Bread  and  cheese  would  be  a  feast  with  the  Shep 
herd. 

Shepherd.  'Deed  it  wad  be  nae  sic  thing.  It's  easy  to 
speak  o'  feasting  on  cheese  and  breed,  and  butter  and  breed — • 
and  in  our  younger  days  they  were  truly  a  feast  on  the  hill. 
But  noo  our  pallets,  if  they  dinna  require  coaxin,  deserve  a 
goo  ;  $  and  I've  seen  a  barer  buird.  Mr.  Awmrose,  lift  the 
lids.  [Mr.  AMBROSE  smilingly  lifts  the  lids. 

North  and  Tickler  (in  delighted  wonder).     Bless  us  ! 

Shepherd.  That's  hotch-potch — and  that's  cocky-leeky — the 
twa  best  soups  in  natur.  Broon  soup's  moss-water — and 
white  soup's  like  scauded  milk  wi'  worms  in't.  But  see,  sirs, 
hoo  the  ladle  stauns  itsel  in  the  potch — and  I  wush  Mr. 
Tickler  could  see  himsel  the  noo  in  a  glass,  curlin  up  his 
nose,  wi'  his  een  glistening,  and  his  mouth  waterin,  at  sicht 
and  smell  o'  the  leeky.  We  kilt  a  lamb  the  day  we  got 
your  letter,  sir,  and  that's  a  hind-quarter  twal-pund  wecht. 
Ayont  it's  a  beef-stake  poy — for  Geordy  Scougal  slaughtered 
a  beast  last  market  day  at  Innerleithen — and  his  meat's  aye 
prime.  Here  are  three  fules — and  that  ham's  nae  sham,  sae 

*  Wordier— worthier.  t  Fend— shift.  t  Goo— provocative. 


488  The  Dishes  are  disclosed. 

we  sail  ca'  him  Japhet.  I  needna  tell  ye  yon's  a  roasted 
green-guse  frae  Crosslee — and  neist  it  mutton -chaps — but  the 
rest's  a'  ggem.  That's  no  cat,  Tickler — but  hare — as  you 
may  ken  by  her  lugs  and  fud.  That  wee  bit  black  beastie — • 
I  wuss  she  niayna  be  wizened  in  the  roastin — is  a  water-hen  ; 
the  twa  aside  her  are  peaseweeps — to  the  east  you  may 
observe  a  leash  o'  grouse — wastwards  ho  !  some  wild  dyucks 
— a  few  pints  to  the  south  a  barren  pair  o'  paitricks — and 
due  north  a  whaup. 

North  (helping  himself  to  a  couple  of  'flappers .)— 

"  O'  a'  the  airts  the  wund  can  blaw 

I  dearly  loe  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonny  dyuckie  lies, 

The  dyuck  that  I  loe  best." 

Shepherd.  But  you  maunna  be  expeckin  a  second  and  third 
coorse.  I  hate  to  hae  denner  set  afore  me  by  instalments  ; 
and,  frae  my  no  havin  the  gift  o'  prophecy,  I've  kent  dish 
efter  dish  slip  through  my  fingers  in  a  succession  o'  coorses, 
till  I  had  feenally  to  assuage  my  hunger  on  gratins  they  ca' 
parmesan.  Sir  George  Warrenner  *  will  recollek  hoo  I  pickit 
them  aff  the  plate  as  if  I  had  been  famished,  yet  frae  first  to 
last  there  had  been  nae  absolute  want  o'  vittals.  I  kept  aye 
waitin  for  the  guse ;  but  nae  guse  o'  an  edible  kind  made  his 
appearance,  and  I  had  to  dine  ower  again  at  sooper  in  my  am 
hottle.*  That's  a  sawmon. 

Ambrose.  There  is  somebody  at  the  door,  sir. 

Shepherd.  Let  him  in.  (AMBROSE  opens  the  door,  and  enter 
Clavers,  Giraffe,  Rover,  Guile,  and  Fang.)  It's  the  dowgs. 
Gentlemen,  be  seated.  [  The  Canine  take  their  seats. 

North.  "  We  are  seven." 

*  I  believe  that  Sir  George  Warrender  presided  at  a  public  dinner  given  to 
Hogg  in  London, 
t  Hottle— hotel. 


Symptoms  of  Hydrophobia.  489 

Shepherd.  A  mystical  nummer — 
North.  The  Pleiades. 
Tickler.— 

"  And  lend  the  Lyre  of  heaven  another  string." 

Shepherd.  I  ken,  Mr.  Tickler,  ye  dinna  like  dowgs.  But  ye 
needna  be  feared,  for  nane  o'  them's  got  the  hydrophoby — 
excepp  it  may  be  Fang.  The  cretur's  been  very  snappish 
sin'  the  barommator  reached  ninety,  and  bat  a  goslin  that 
began  to  bark — but  though  the  goslin  bat  him  again,  he 
hasna  yet  been  heard  to  quack  ony,  sae  he's  no  muckle  mad. 
You're  no  mad,  Fang  ? 

Fang.  Buy — wuy — wuy. 

Shepherd.  His  speech's  rather  affeckit.  He  used  to  say — 
bow — wow — wow. 

Tickler  (sidling  away  nearer  the  Shepherd).  I  don't  much 
like  his  looks. 

Shepherd.  But,  dear  me !  I've  forgotten  to  help  you — and 
hae  been  eatin  and  talkin  awa  wi'  a  fu'  mouth  and  trencher, 
while  baith  o'  yours  is  stannin  wide  open  and  empty — and  I 
fear,  bein'  out  a'  day,  you  maun  be  fent. 

Tickler.  Say  grace,  James. 

Shepherd.  I  said  it,  Timothy,  afore  I  sat  doun ;  and  though 
you  two  was  na  in,  it  included  you,  for  I  kent  you  wadna  be 
far  aff ;  sae  it's  a*  richt  baith  in  time  and  place.  Fa'  tae. 

Tickler.  If  you  have  been  addressing  me,  my  dear  sir,  never 
was  there  more  needless  advice.  A  more  delicious  duck 
ling— 

North.  Than  Fatima  I  never  devoured. 

Shepherd.  O  ye  rubiawtors !  Twa  wild  dyucks  dune  to  the 
very  doups !  I  intented  to  hae  tasted  them  mysel — but  the 
twa  thegither  wadna  hae  wechted  wi'  my  whaup. 

Tickler.  Your  Whaup? 


490  Friendship  among  Dogs. 

Shepherd.  You  a  Scotchman  and  no  ken  a  whaup  ?  0  you 
gowk  !  The  English  ca't  a  curly. 

Tickler.  Oh  !  a  curlew.     I  have  seen  it  in  Bewick. 

Shepherd.  And  never  in  the  muirs  ?  Then  ye  needna  read 
Booick.  For  to  be  a  naturalist  you  maun  begin  wi'  natur, 
and  then  study  her  wi'  the  help  o'  her  chosen  sons.  But 
what  think  ye,  sirs,  o'  thae  pecks  o'  green  pease  ? 

North.  By  the  flavor,  I  know  them  to  be  from  Cacra  Bank. 

Shepherd.  Never  kent  I  a  man  o'  sic  great  original  genius, 
wi'  sic  a  fine  delicate  taste.  They're  really  sae.  John  Grieve 
kent  ye  was  comin  to  Altrive,  and  sent  me  ower  baith  them 
and  thae  young  potawtoes.  You'll  be  delichted  to  see  him 
the  morn  in  Ettrick  kirk — for  I  haena  kent  him  lookin 
sae  strang  and  fresh  for  a  dizzen  years — oh !  there's  nae- 
thing  for  ane  ony  way  invalidish  like  the  air  o'  ane's  native 
hills! 

Tickler.  Come,  Mr.  Hogg,  do  tell  us  how  you  got  the  game  ? 

Shepherd.  It  wasna  my  blame.  Last  Saturday,  that's  this 
day  week,  I  gaed  out  to  the  fishin,  and  the  dowgs  gaed  wi' 
me,  for  when  they're  left  at  hame  they  keep  up  siccan  a 
yowlin  that  folk  passin  by  micht  think  Altrive  a  kennel  for 
the  Duke's  jowlers.  I  paid  nae  attention  to  them,  but  left 
them  to  amuse  theirsels — Clavers  and  Giraffe,  that's  the  twa 
grews — Fang,  the  terrier — and  Guile  and  Rover,  collies — at 
least  they  ca'  Rover  a  collie,  though  he's  gotten  a  cross  o' 
some  outlandish  bluid,  and  he  belangs  to  the  young  gentle 
man  at  Thirlstane,  but  he's  a  great  freen  o'  our  Guile's,  and 
often  pays  him  a  visit. 

Tickler.  I  thought  there  had  been  no  friendship  among  dogs. 

Shepherd.  Then  you  thocht  wrang — for  they  aften  loe  ane 
anither  like  bithers,  especially  when  they're  no  like  ane  anith- 
er,  being  indeed  in  that  respect,  just  like  us  men ;  for  nae 
twa  human  beings  are  mair  unlike  ither,  physically,  morally, 


"  Watty's  deid"  491 

and  intellectually,  than  you  and  me,  Mr.  Tickler,  and  yet 
dinna  we  loe  ane  anither  like  brithers  ? 

Tickler.  We  do,  we  do,  my  dearest  Shepherd.     Well  ? 

Shepherd.  The  trouts  wadna  tak ;  whup  the  water  as  I  wad, 
I  couldna  get  a  loupl  Flee,  worm,  mennow,  a'  useless,  and 
the  water,  though  laigh,  wasna  laigh  aneuch  for  guddlin. 

Tickler.  Guddlin? 

Shepherd.  Nae  mair  o'  your  affeckit  ignorance,  Mr.  Tickler. 
You  think  it  fashionable  to  be  ignorant  o'  everything  vulgar 
folk  like  me  thinks  worth  knawin,  but  Mr.  North's  a  genteeler 
man  nor  you  ony  day  o'  the  week,  and  he  kens  brawly  what's 
guddlin ;  and  what's  mair,  he  was  ance  himsel  the  best 
guddler  in  the  south  o'  Scotland,  if  you  exceppit  Bandy  Jock 
Gray  o'  Pebbles.  He  couldna  guddle  wi'  Bandy  Jock  ony 
mair  than  loup  wi'  Watty  o'  the  Pen,  the  Flyin  Tailor  o' 
Ettrick. 

North  (laying  down  his  knife  and  fork).  I'll  leap  him  to 
morrow  for  love. 

Shepherd.  Wheesht — wheesht.     The  morn's  the  Sabbath. 

North.  On  Monday  then — running  hop-step-and-leap,  or 
a  running  leap,  on  level  ground — back  and  forward — with  or 
without  the  crutch — let  him  use  sticks  if  he  will — 

Shepherd.  Wheesht — wheesht.     Watty's  deid. 

North.  Dead! 

Shepherd.  And  buried.  I  was  at  the  funeral  on  Thursday. 
The  folk  are  talkin  o'  pittin  up  a  bit  monument  to  him — in 
deed  hae  asked  me  to  indite  an  inscription.  I  said  it  should 
be  as  simple  as  possible — and  merely  record  the  chief  act  o' 
his  life — u  Hie  JACET  WALTER  LAIDLAW  OF  THE  PEN,  THE 
CELEBRATED  FLYING  TAILOR  OP  ETTRICK,  WHO  BEAT 
CHRISTOPHER  NORTH  AT  HOP-STEP-AND-JUMP." 

North  (resuming  his  knife  andforfy.Well — fix  your  day,  and 
though  Tweed  should  be  in  flood,  I  will  guddle  Bandy  Jock. 


492  "Bandy  Jock:1 

Shepherd.  Bandy  Jock  'ill  guddle  nae  mair  in  this  warld. 
He  dee'd  o'  the  rheumatiz  on  May-day — and  the  same  inscrip 
tion,  wi'  a  little  variation — leavin  out  "  hop-step-and-jump," 
and  inserting  "  guddlin  " — will  answer  for  him  that  will 
answer  for  Watty  o'  the  Pen. 

Tickler.  'Pon  honor,  my  dear  sir,  I  know  not  guddlin. 

Shepherd.  In  the  wast  they  ca't  ginnlin. 

Tickler.  Whew  !  I'Jl  ginnle  Kit  for  a  pair  of  ponies. 

North  (derisively).  Ha,  ha,  ha. 

Shepherd.  I've  seen  Bandy  Jock  dook  doun  head  and 
shouthers,  sae  that  you  saw  but  the  doup  o'  him  facin  the 
sun,  aneath  a  bank,  and  remain  for  the  better  pairt  o'  five 
minutes  wi'  his  mouth  and  nostrils  in  the  water — hoo  he 
contrived  to  breathe  I  kenna — when  he  wad  draw  them  out, 
wi'  his  lang  carroty  hair  a'  poorin,  wi'  a  trout  a  fit  lang  in  ilka 
haun,  and  ane  aiblins  auchteen  inches  atween  his  teeth. 

Tickler.  You  belong,  I  believe,  Mr.  Hogg,  to  the  Royal  Com 
pany  of  Archers  ? 

Shepherd.  What  connection  has  that  ?  I  do  ;  and  I'll  shoot 
you  ony  day.  Captain  Colley  ance  backed  Bandy  Jock  again' 
a  famous  tame  otter  o'  Squire  Lomax's  frae  Lancashire — 
somewhat  about  Preston — that  the  Squire  aye  carried  wi' 
him  in  the  carriage — a  pool  bein'  made  for  its  accommodation 
in  the  floor  wi'  air-holes — and  Jock  bate  the  otter  by  fifteen 
pound — though  the  otter  gruppit  a  sawmon. 

Tickler.  But,  mine  host,  the  game  ? 

Shepherd.  Do  you  no  like  it  ?  Is't  no  gude  ?  It  surely 
canna  be  stinkin  ?  And  yet  this  het  wather's  sair  compleened 
o'  by  the  cyuck,  and  flees  will  get  intil  the  Safe.  I  gie  you 
my  word  for't,  howsomever,  that  I  saw  her  carefully  wi'  a 
knife  scrapin  out  the  mauks. 

Tickler.  I  see  nothing  in  the  shape  of  maggots  in  this  one. 

Shepherd.  Nor  shall  ye  in  this  ane — (forking  it) — for  I  see 


Sow  the  Old  Cock  was  got.  493 

that,  though  I'm  in  my  ain  house,  I  maun  tak  care  o'  mysel 
wi'  you  Embro'  chaps,  or  I'll  be  famished. 

Tickler.  But,  mine  host,  the  game  ? 

Shepherd.  That  cretur  Fang  there — him  wi'  the  slicht  touch 
o'  the  hydrophoby — is  the  gleggest  at  a  grup  o'  ggem  sit- 
tin,  in  a'  the  Forest.  As  for  Rover,  he  has  the  nose  o'  a 
Spanish  pinter,  and  draws  and  backs  as  if  he  had  been  regu 
larly  brak  in  by  a  dowg-breaker,  wi'  a  dowg-whup  on  the 
muirs.  On  my  way  up  the  Yarrow — me  wi'  my  fishin-rod  in 
my  haun,  no  put  up,  and  no  unlike  the  Crutch,  only  with 
out  the  cross — Rover  begins  snokin  and  twinin  himsel  in  a 
serpentine  style,  that  aye  denotes  a  strang  scent — wi'  his 
fanlike  tail  whaffin — and  Fang  close  at  his  heels — when  Fang 
pounces  on  what  I  thocht  might  pruve  but  a  tuft  o'  heather, 
or  perhaps  a  mowdiewarp — but  he  kent  better — for  in  troth 
it  was  the  Auld  Cock — and  then  whurr — whurr — whurr — a 
covey  o'  what  seemed  no  far  short  o'  half  a  bunder — for  they 
broon'd  the  lift ;  and  in  the  impetus  o'  the  moment,  wi'  the 
sudden  inspiration  o'  an  improveesistreecky,  I  let  fly  the  rod 
amang  them  as  if  it  had  been  a  rung.*  It  wounded  many, 
but  knocked  doun  but  three — and  that's  them,  or  at  least  was 
them — for  I  noo  see  but  ane — Tickler  ha'in  taen  to  his  share 
the  Auld  Cock. 

North.  And  the  ducklings  ? 

Shepherd.  Ca'  them  flappers.  A  maist  ridiculous  Ack  o' 
Parliament  has  tried  to  mak  them  ggem — through  it's  weel 
kent  that  tame  dyucks  and  wild  dyucks  are  a'  ae  breed — 
but  a  thousand  Acks  o'  Parliament  'ill  never  gar  me  consider 
them  ggem,  or  treat  them  as  ggem,  ony  mair  than  if  you  were 
to  turn  out  a  score  o'  how-towdies  on  the  heather,  and  ca' 
them  ggem. 

Tickler.  Pheasants 

*  Eurtfj—  walking  staff . 


494  The  Flappers. 

Shepherd.  I  ken  naething  about  feesants,  excepp  that  they 
are  no  worth  eatin. 

North.  You  are  wrong  there,  James.  The  duke  sends  me 
annually  half-a-dozen,  and  they  eat  like  Birds  of  Paradise. 

Shepherd.  Even  the  hen's  no  half  sae  gude's  a  hen.  But 
for  the  flappers.  A'  the  five  dowgs  fand  theirsels  a'  at  ance 
in  amang  a  brood  on  a  green  level  marshy  spat,  where  escape 
was  impossible  for  puir  beasts  that  couldna  yet  flee — and 
therefore  are  ca'd  flappers.  It  wad  hae  been  vain  for  me  to 
try  to  ca'  the  dowgs  aff — sae  I  cried  them  on — and  you  never 
saw  sic  murder.  The  auld  drake  and  dyuck  keepit  circling 
round — quack-quack-quackin  out  o'  shot  in  the  sky — and  I 
pitied  the  puir  pawrents  lookiu  doun  on  the  death  o'  their 
promising  progeny.  By  gude  luck  I  had  on  the  sawinon- 
creel — and  lookiu  round  about,  I  crammed  in  a'  the  ten — 
doun  wi'  the  lid — and  awa  alang  the  holms  o'  Yarrow  as  if 
I  was  selecking  a  stream  for  beginnin  to  try  the  fishin— 
when,  wha  sud  I  meet  but  ane  o'  his  Grace's  keepers  !  Afore 
I  kent  whare  T  was,  he  put  his  haun  aneath  the  basket,  and 
tried  to  gie't  a  hoist — but  providentially  he  never  keekit  intil 
the  hole — and  tell  in  him  I  had  had  grand  trootin — but  maun 
be  aff,  for  that  a  lassie  had  been  sent  to  tell  me  that  twa 
gentlemen  frae  Embro'  had  corne  out  to  Altrive — I  wished 
him  gude  day,  and  took  the  fuird.  But  my  heart  was  loupin, 
and  I  felt  as  if  I  was  gaun  to  fent.  A  sook  o'  Glenlivet, 
however,  set  me  a'  richt — and  we  shall  hae  the  lave  to  sooper 
I  howp  poosie's  tasty,  sir  ? 

North.  I  have  rarely  ate  a  sweeter  and  richer  leveret. 

Shepherd.  I'll  thank  ye,  sir,  to  ca'  the  cretur  by  her  richt 
name — the  name  she  gaed  by,  to  my  knowledge,  for  mony 
years — a  Hare.  She  hasna  been  a  leveret  sin'  the  King's 
visit  to  Scotland.  I  howp  you  dinna  find  her  teuch  ?  * 

*  Teuch— tough. 


TJie  Witch  in  a  Hare-skin.  495 

North.  Not  yet. 

Shepherd.  You  maun  lay  your  account  wi'  her  legs  bein* 
harder  wark  than  her  main  body  and  wings.  I'm  glad  to  see 
Girrzzy  hasna  spared  the  stuffin — and  you  needna  hain  the 
jeel,*  for  there's  twa  dizzen  pats  o'  new,  red,  black,  and  white, 
in  that  closet,  wi'  their  mouths  cosily  covered  wi'  pages  .o' 
some  auld  lowse  Nummers  o'  Blackwood 's  Magazine — the 
feck  o'  them  belangin  to  twa  articles,  entitled  "  Streams  " 
and  "  Cottages." 

North  (wincing).   But  to  the  story  of  the  game. 

Shepherd.  The  witch  was  sitting  in  her  ain  kail-yard — the 
preceese  house  I  dinna  choose  to  mention — when  Giraffe,  in 
louping  ower  the  dyke,  louped  ower  her,  and  she  gied  a  spang 
intil  the  road,  turning  round  her  fud  within  a  yard  o'  Clavers 
— and  then  sic  a  brassel  a'  three  thegither  up  the  brae  !  And 
then  back  again— in  a  hairy  whirlwind — twa  miles  in  less 
than  ae  minute.  She  made  for  the  mouth  o'  the  siver,  f  but 
Rover,  wha  had  happened  to  be  examining  it,  in  his  inquisi 
tive  way,  and  kent  naething  o'  the  coorse,  was  comin  out  just 
as  she  was  gaun  in,  an'  atween  the  twa  there  ensued,  unseen 
in  the  siver,  a  desperate  battle.  Weel  dune,  witch — weel 
dune,  warlock- — and  at  ae  time  I  feared  frae  his  yelpin  and 
yowlin  that  Rover  was  gettin  the  warst  o't,  and  micht  lose 
his  life.  Auld  poosies  cuff  sair  wi'  their  forepaws — and 
theirs  is  a  wicked  bite.  But  the  outlandish  wolfiness  in 
Rover  brak  forth  in  extremity,  and  he  cam  rushin  out  o'  the 
siver  wi'  her  in  his  mouth,  shaking  her  savagely,  as  if  she  had 
been  but  a  ratten,  and  I  had  to  choke  him  aff.  Forby  thrap- 
lin  her,  he  had  bit  intil  the  jugular — and  she  lost  sae  meikle 
bluid,  that  you  hae  eaten  her  the  noo  roasted,  instead  o'  her 
made  intil  soup.  She  wad  hae  been  the  tenderer  o'  anither 
fortnicht  o'  this  net  wather — wi'  the  glass  at  92  in  the 

•  Hain  thejeel — be  sparing  of  the  jelly.  t  Siver — a  covered  drain. 


496  She  recovers  her  Skin, 

shade  o'  the  Safe  in  the  Larder — yet  you  seem  to  be  gettin 
on — 

North.  Pretty  well — were  it  not  that  a  sinew — like  a  length 
of  catgut — from  the  old  dame's  left  hip  has  got  so  entangled 
among  my  tusks,  that — 

Shepherd.  You  are  speakin  sae  through  your  teeth  as  no  to 
be  verra  intelligible.  Let  me  cut  the  sinny  wi'  my  knife. 

[The  SHEPHERD  operates  with  much  surgical  dexterity. 

North.  Thank  you,  James.  I  shall  eat  no  more  of  the 
leveret  now — but  take  it  minced  at  supper. 

Shepherd.  Minshed !  ma  faith,  you've  minshed  it  wi'  a 
vengeance.  She's  a  skeleton  noo,  and  nae  mair — and  let's 
send  her  in  as  a  curiosity  in  a  glass  case  to  James  Wilson — 
to  meet  him  on  his  return  frae  the  Grand  Scientific  Expedi 
tion  o'  thae  fearless  feelosopbers  into  the  remotest  regions  o' 
Sutherland,  to  ascertain  whether  par  be  par,  or  o'  the  seed  o' 
sawmon.  We'll  swear  that  we  fand  it  imbedded  in  a  solid 
rock,  and  it  '11  pass  for  the  young  o'  some  specie  o'  antedilu 
vian  yelephant. 

Tickler.  Clap  the  skin  upon  it — and  tell  James  that  we 
all  three  saw  it  jump  out  of  the  heart  of  the  trap. 

Shepherd.  A  queer  idea.  Awmrose,  bid  Girrzzy  gie  ye  the 
hare-skin  o'  that  auld  hare  that's  noo  eaten  intil  a  skeleton 
by  Mr.  North. 

[Exit  AMBROSE,  and  enters  with  the  hare-skin. 
North.  Allow  me  to  put  it  on. 

[NORTH  seems  much  at  a  loss. 

Shepherd.  Hoot,  man  !  The  skin's  inside  out !  There — 
the  lugs  fit  nicely — (the  SHEPHERD  adroitly  re-furs  Puss) — 
and  the  head — but  there's  a  sair  fa'in  aff  everywhere  else — 
and  noo  that  it's  on — this  unreal  mockery  is  mair  shockin 
than  the  skeleton.  Tak  it  awa — tak  it  awa,  Mr.  Awmrose — 
I  canna  thole  to  look  at  it. 


And  vanishes  through  the    Window.          497 

North.  Stop,  Ambrose.     Give  it  me  a  moment. 

[NORTH  lends  it  a  legerdemain  touch  after  the  style  of  the 
late  celebrated    Othello   Devaynes   of  Liverpool,  and  the 
witch,  in  point  of  activity,   apparently  not   one   whit  the 
worse  of  having  been  eaten,  jumps  out  of  the  window. 
Omnes.  Halloo  !  halloo !  halloo  ! 

[Clavers,  Giraffe,  Rover,  Guile,  and  Fang,  spring  from 
their  seats,  and  evanish, — Fang  clearing  the  sill  as  clean 
as  a  frog. 

Tickler.  Now,  Ambrose,  down  with  the  window  —  for, 
though  my  nose  is  none  of  the  most  fastidious,  we  have  really 
had  in  every  way  quite  enough  of  dogs. 

32 


XXVIII. 
A  DAY  AT  TIBBIE'S. 

SCENE  I. — Green  in  front  of  TIBBIE'S,  head  of  St.  Mary's  Loch.* 
Time — Four  afternoon.  SHEPHERD  standing  a/one,  in  a 
full  suit  of  the  Susalpine  Tartan.  Arrive  NORTH  and 
TICKLER  on  their  Norwegians. 

Shepherd.  True  to  time  as  the  cuckoo  or  the  swallow. 
Hail,  Christopher  !  Hail,  Timothy  !  Lords  o'  the  ascend 
ant,  I  bid  ye  hail ! 

Tickler.  Hoo's  a'  wi'  ye,  Jeems  ? 

Shepherd.  Brawlies — brawlies,  sir  ;  but  tak  my  advice,  Mr. 
Tickler,  and  never  attempp  what  ma  excellent  f reen,  Downie 
o'  Appin,  ca's  the  Doric,  you  Dowg,  for  sic  anither  pronoun- 
ciation  was  never  heard  on  this  side  o'  the  North  Pole. 

North.  My  beloved  Broonie  !  lend  a  helping  hand  to  your 
old  accomplice  while  he  endeavors  to  dismount. 

Shepherd*  My  heart  hotches,  like  a  bird's  nest  wi'  young 
anes,  at  the  sound  o'  your  vice.  Ay — ay — I'll  affectionately 
lend  a  helpin  haun  to  my  auld  accomplice  while  he  endea 
vors  to  dismunt — my  auld  accomplice  in  a'  kinds  o'  innicent 
wicketness — and  Clootie  shanna  tak  the  ane  o'  us  without 
the  ither — I'm  determined  on  that, — yet  Clootie's  a  great 
coward,  and  wull  never  hae  courage  to  face  the  Crutch ! 

*  Tibbie  Shields  and  her  interesting  pastoral  hostelry  still  flourish  for 
the  accommodation  of  travellers  in  the  wild  solitudes  of  St  Mary's  Loch, 
Selkirkshire. 

498 


A  Statue  of  Hippolytus.  499 

Tickler.  And  how  am  I  to  get  off  ? 

Shepherd.  Your  feet's  within  twa-three  inches  o'  the  grand 
already — strauchtyour  knees — plant  your  soles  on  the  sward 
— let  gae  the  grup,  and  the  beast  '11  walk  out  frae  aneath 
you,  as  if  he  was  passing  through  a  triumphal  airch. 
Cream-colored  pownies !  Are  they  a  present  frae  the 
royal  stud  ? 

North.  They  are  Norwegians,  James,  riot  Hanoverians. 
Lineally  descended  from  the^only  brace  of  cavalry  King  Haco 
had  on  board  at  the  battle  of  Largs. 

Shepherd.  His  ain  body-guard  o'  horse-marines.  Does  he 
bite? 

North.  Sometimes.  But  please  to  observe  that  he  is 
muzzled. 

Shepherd.  I  thocht  'twas  but  a  nettin  ower  his  nose.  Does 
he  kick  ? 

North.  I  have  known  him  kick. 

Shepherd.  I  canna  say  I  like  that  layin  back  p'  his  lugs — 
nor  yet  that  twust  o'  his  tail — and,  mercy  on  us,  but  he's 
gotten  the  Evil  Ee ! 

Tickler.  Tibbie !  a  stool. 

[TIBBIE  places  a  cutty  stool  below  TICKLER'S  left  foot — and 
describing  half  a  circle  with  his  right,  TIMOTHY  treads 
the  sod — then  facing  about,  leans  with  his  right  elbow  on 
Harold's  shoulder — while  his  left  forms  the  apex  :f  an 
isosceles  triangle,  as  hand  on  hip  he  stands,  like  Hippo 
lytus  or  Meleager. 

Shepherd  (admiring  Tickler).  There's  an  equestrian  statue 
worth  a  thousand  o'  that  o'  Lord  Hopetoun  and  his  horse  in 
front  o'  the  Royal  Bank  —though  judges  tell  me  that  Cawmel 
the  sculptor's  a  modern  Midas.  Hoo  grandly  the  figures 
combine  wi*  the  backgrund !  See  hoo  that  rock  relieves 
Tickler's  heid, — and  hoo  that  tree  carries  off  Hawco's  tail ! 


500  Tickler  in  his  Shooting-coat. 

The  Director-general  was  wrang  in  swearing  that  sculptur 
needs  nae  scenery  to  set  it  aff — for  will  onybody  tell  me  that 
that  group  would  be  as  magnificent  with  in  the  four  bare  wa's 
o'  an  exhibition-room,  as  where  it  noo  stauns,  in  the  heart  o' 
licht,  encircled  by  hills,  and  overhung  by  heaven  ?  Gin  a 
magician  could,  by  a  touch  o'  his  wand,  convert  it  intil 
marble,  it  would  be  worth  a  ransom.  But,  alas  !  'tis  but 
transitory  flesh  and  bluid  ! 

Tickler.  Why  don't  you  speak,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Admiration  has  held  me  mute.  I  beseech  ye, 
sir,  dinna  stir — for  sic  anither  attitude  for  elegance,  grace, 
and  majesty,  's  no  within  the  possible  combinations  o'  the 
particles  o'  maitter.  Tibbie !  tak  aff  your  een,  it's  no  safe 
for  a  widow  woman  to  glower  lang  on  sic  a  spectacle  !  Then 
the  garb  !  what  an  advantage  it  has  ower  Lord  Hopetoun's  ! 
His  lordship  looks  as  if  he  had  loupt  out  o'  his  bed  on 
sae  sudden  an  alarm,  that  he  had  time  but  to  fling  the 
blankets  ower  his  shouthers,  and  the  groom  nae  time  to 
saiddle  the  horse,  which  his  maister  had  to  ride  a'  nicht  bare 
backit — altogether  beneath  the  dignity  o'  a  British  general. 
But  there  the  costume  is  a'  in  perfeck  keepin — purple  plush 
jacket  wi'  great  big  white  horn  buttons  single  breisted — 
cape  hangiu  easily  ower  the  back  o'  the  neck — haun-cuffs 
fliped  to  gie  the  wrists  room  to  play- — and  the  flaps  o'  the 
mony-pouched  reachin  amaist  doon  to  the  knee,  frae  which 
again  the  ee  travels  alang  the  tartan  trews  till  it  feenally 
rests  on  a  braw  brass  buckle — or  is  it  gowd  ? — bricht  on  his 
instep  as  a  cairngorm.  But  up  wi'  a  swurl  again  flees  im 
agination,  and  settles  amang  the  lights  and  shadows  o'  the 
picturesque  scenery  o'  that  mony-shaped  straw-hat — the  rim 
o'  its  circumference  a  Sabbath-day's  journey  round — umbra 
geous  umbrella,  aneath  which  he  stauns  safe  frae  sun  and 
rain — and  might  entertain  a  seleck  pairty  in  the  cool  of  the 


North's  Face.  501 

air !  which  he  could  keep  in  circulation  by  a  shake  o'  his 
head! 

Tickler.  Now  that  I  have  stood  for  my  statue,  James,  pray 
give  us  a  pen-and-ink  sketch  of  Christopher. 

Shepherd.  There  he  sits,  turned  half  round  on  the  saiddle, 
wi'  ae  haun  restin  on  the  mane,  and  the  ither  haudin  by  the 
crupper, — no  that  he's  feared  to  fa'  aff — for  I've  seldom  seen 
him  tummle  at  a  staun-still — but  that  I  may  hae  a  front,  a 
back,  and  a  side  view  o'  him  a'  at  ance — for  his  finest  pint  is 
what  I  would  venture,  wi'  a  happy  audacity,  to  ca'  the  circu 
lar  contour  o'  his  full  face  and  figure  in  profile — sae  that  the 
spectawtor  has  a  comprehensive  visey  o'  a'  the  characteristic 
attributes  o'  his  outward  man. 

North.  The  circular  contour  of  my  full  face  and  figure 
in  profile  ?  I  should  like  to  see  it. 

Shepherd.  I  fear  I  shanna  be  able  to  feenish  the  figure  at 
ae  sittin,  for  it's  no  easy  to  get  rid  o'  that  face. 

North.  I  am  trying  to  look  as  mild  as  cheese. 

Shepherd.  Dinna  fasten  your  twa  grey  green  een  on  mine 
like  a  wull-cat. 

North.  Verily  they  are  more  like  a  sucking  dove's. 

Shepherd.  Surely  there's  nae  need  to  look  sae  cruel  about 
the  doun-drawn  corners  o'  your  mouth — for  that  neb's  aneuch 
o'  itsel — every  year  liker  and  liker  a  ggem-hawk's. 

North.  I  am  a  soft-billed  bird. 

Shepherd.  A  multitude  o'  lang,  braid,  white,  sharp  teeth's 
fearsome  in  the  mouth  o'  an  auld  man,  and  maks  ane  suspeck 
dealins  wi'  the  enemy,  and  an  unhallowed  lease  o'  a  lang  life. 

North.  Would  that  I  had  not  forgotten  to  bargain  for 
exemption  from  the  toothache  ! 

Shepherd.  I  wuss  there  mayna  be  mair  meant  than  meets 
the  ee  in  thae  marks  on  the  forehead.  They  tell  na  o'  the 
touch  o'  Time,  but  o'  the  Tempter. 


502  "ffae  ye  selt  your  Sowl?" 

North.  I  rub  them  off  —  so  —  and  lo  —  the  brow  of  a 
boy! 

Shepherd.  Answer  me  ae  question — I  adjure  you — hae  ye 
selt  your  sowl  to  Satan  ? 

North  (smiling).     James  ! 

Shepherd.  Heaven  bless  you,  sir,  for  that  smile — for  it  has 
scattered  the  dismal  darkness  o'  doubt  in  which  ye  were 
beginning  to  wax  intil  a  demon,  and  I  behold  Christopher 
North  in  his  ain  native  light — a  man — a  gentleman — and  a 
Christian.  But  whare's  the  crutch  ? 

North.  Crutch !  The  useless  old  sinecurist  has  been  lying 
in  velvet  all  autumn.  Henceforth  I  believe  I  shall  dispense 
with  his  services — for  the  air  of  the  Forest  has  proved  fatal 
to  gout,  rheumatism,  and  lumbago — of  which  truth  behold 
the  pleasant  proof — James — here  goes  ! 

[NORTH  springs  up  to  his  feet  on  the  crupper,  throws  a 
somerset  over  Haco's  rump,  and  bounds  from  the  green 
sward  as  from  a  spring-board. 

Tickler.  Not  amiss.  Let's  untackle  our  cattle — and  make 
our  toilet. 

[NORTH  and  TICKLER  strip  their  steeds,  and  turn  them 
loose  into  the  meadow,  green  as  emerald  with  a  flush  of 
aftergrass,  in  which  they  sink  to  the  fetlocks,  as  at  full 
gallop  they  describe  fairy-rings  within  fairy-rings,  till  in 
the  centre  of  the  field  they  subside  into  a  trot,  and  after 
diversely  careering  a  while  with  flowing  mane  and  tail, 
and  neighings  that  thrill  the  hills,  settle  to  serious  eating, 
and  look  as  if  they  had  been  quietly  pasturing  there 
since  morn. 

North.  That's  right,  my  good  Tibbie.  Put  my  pail  of 
water  and  my  portmanteau  into  the  arbor. 

Tickler.  That's  right,  my  pretty  Dolly,  put  my  pail  of 
water  and  my  portmanteau  into  the  shed. 


North's  Raptures.  503 

[NORTH  retires  into  the  arbor  to  make  his  toilet,  and 
TICKLER  into  the  opposite  shed.  The  SHEPHERD 
remains  midway  between — held  there  by  the  counterac 
tion  of  two  equal  powers  of  animal  magnetism. 

Shepherd.  Are  ye  gaun  into  the  dookin  in  thae  twa  pails  ? 

North.  No — as  rural  lass  adjusts  her  silken  snood  by  re 
flection  in  such  pellucid  mirror — so  am  I  about  to  shave. 

Shepherd.  Remember  the  fable  o'  the  goat  and  the  well. 

North  (within  the  Arbor).  How  beautiful  the  fading 
year!  A  month  ago,  this  arbor  was  all  one  dusky  green — 
now  it  glows — it  burns  with  gold,  and  orange,  and  purple, 
and  crimson  !  How  harmonious  the  many-colored  glory  ! 
How  delightful  are  all  the  hues  in  tone ! 

Shepherd.  Arena  ye  cauld  staunin  there  in  your  linen  ? 
For  I  see  you  through  the  thin  umbrage,  like  a  ghost  in  a 
dirty  shirt. 

North.  Sweet  are  autumn's  rustling  bowers,  but  sweeter 
far  her  still — when  dying  leaf  after  dying  leaf  drops  unre- 
luctantly  from  the  spray — all  noiseless  as  snow-flakes — and 
like  them  ere  long  to  melt  away  into  the  bosom  of  mother 
earth.  It  seems  but  yesterday  when  they  were  buds ! 

Shepherd.  Tak  tent  ye  dinna  cut  yoursel — it's  no  safe  to 
moraleese  when  ane's  shavin.  Are  ye  speakin  to  me,  or  was 
that  meant  for  a  soliloquy  ? 

North.  In  holt  or  shaw,  in  wood  or  grove,  on  bush  or  hedge 
row,  among  broom  or  bracken,  the  merry  minstrelsy  is  heard 
no  more  !  Soon  as  they  cease  to  sing  they  seem  to  disap 
pear  ;  the  mute  mavis  retires  with  her  speckled  throat  and 
breast  so  beautiful  into  the  forest  gloom ;  the  bold  blackbird 
hides  himself  for  a  season,  till  the  berries  redden  the  holly- 
trees;  and  where  have  all  the  linties  gone?  Are  they,  too, 
home-changing  birds  of  passage  ?  and  have  they  flown  un 
gratefully  away  with  the  swallows,  to  sunny  southern  isles  ? 


504  Leaving  Altrive  early. 

Shepherd.  He's  mair  poetical  nor  correck  in  his  ornithology; 
yet  it's  better  to  fa'  into  siclike  harmless  errors  in  the  study  o' 
leevin  birds — errors  o'  a  lovin  heart,  and  a  mournfu'  imagina 
tion — than  to  keep  scientifically  richt  amang  stuffed  speci 
mens  sittin  for  ever  in  ae  attitude  wi'  bead-een  in  a  glass-case. 

Tickler  (within  the  Sited).  What  have  you  been  about 
with  yourself  all  day,  my  dear  James  ? 

Shepherd.  No  muckle.  I  left  Altrive  after  breakfast- 
about  nine — and  the  Douglas  Burn  lookin  gey  temptin,  I 
tried  it  wi'  the  black  gnat,  and  sune  creeled  some  fowre  or 
five  dizzen — the  maist  o'  them  sina' — few  exceedin  a  pund. 

Tickler.    Hem.* 

Shepherd.  I  fear,  sir,  you've  gotten  a  sair  throat.  Ane 
sune  tires  o'  trootin  at  ma  time  o'  life,  sae  I  then  put  on  a 
sawmon  flee,  and  without  ony  howp  daunered  donn  to  a 
favorite  cast  on  the  Yarrow.  Sometimes  a  body  may  keep 
threshin  the  water  for  a  week  without  seein  a  snout — and 
sometimes  a  body  hyucks  a  fish  at  the  very  first  thraw  ;  and 
sae  it  happened  wi'  me — though  I  can  gie  mysel  nae  credit 
for  skill — for  I  was  just  wattin  my  flee  near  the  edge,  when 
a  new-run  fish,  strong  as  a  white  horse,  rushed  at  it,  and  then 
out  o'  the  water  wi'  a  spang  higher  than  my  head, 

"  My  heart  to  my  mouth  gied  a  sten," 

and  he  had  amaist  rugged  the  rod  out  my  nieve ;  but  I  sune 
recovered  my  presence  o'  mind,  and  after  indulgin  his  royal 
highness  in  a  few  plunges,  I  gied  him  the  butt,  ,and  for  a 
quarter  o'  an  hour  keept  his  nose  to  the  grunstane.  It's  a 
sair  pity  to  see  a  sawmon  sulky,  and  I  thocht — and  nae  doubt 
sae  did  he — that  he  had  taen  up  his  lodgins  at  the  bottom 
o'  a  pool  for  the  nicht — though  the  sun  had  just  reached  his 
meridian.  The  plump  o'  a  stane  half  a  hunderwecht  made 
*  Hem— implying  a  doubt. 


Hogg  lands  his  Salmon.  505 

him  shift  his  quarters — and  a  sudden  thocht  struck  him  that 
he  would  mak  the  best  o'  his  way  to  the  Tweed,  and  then 
doun  to  the  sea  at  Berwick.  But  I  bore  sae  hard  on  him  wi' 
an  auchteen-feet  rod,  that  by  the  time  he  had  swam  twa 
miles — and  a'  that  time,  though  I  aften  saw  his  shadow,  I 
seldom  saw  himsel — he  was  sae  sair  blawn  that  he  cam  to  the 
surface  o'  his  ain  accord,  as  if  to  tak  breath — and  after  that 
I  had  it  a'  my  ain  way — for  he  was  powerless  as  a  sheaf  o' 
corn  carried  doun  in  a  spate — and  I  landed  him  at  the  fuird, 
within  a  few  hunder  yards  o'  Altrive.  Curious  aneuch,  wee 
Jamie  was  sittin  by  himsel  on  the  bank,  switherin  about 
wadin  across,  and  you  may  imagine  the  dear  cretur's  joy  on 
seein  a  twunty-pund  fish — the  heaviest  ever  killed  wi'  the  rod 
in  Yarrow — floatin  in  amang  his  feet. 

Tickler.  You  left  him  at  home  ? 

Shepherd.  Whare  else  should  I  hae  left  him  ? 

Tickler.  Hem. 

Shepherd.  You  really  maun  pit  some  flannen  round  that 
throat — for  at  this  time  o'  the  year,  when  baith  man  and 
horse  is  saft,  inflammation  rapidly  arrives  at  its  hicht — 
mortification  without  loss  o'  time  ensues — and  within  the 
four-and-twunty  hours  I've  kent  a  younger  chiel  than  you, 
sir,  streekit  out — 

Tickler.  What? 

Shepherd.  A  corp. 

Tickler.  Any  more  sport? 

Shepherd.  Returnin  to  the  Loch,  I  thocht  I  wad  try  the 
otter.*  Sae  I  launched  him  on  a  steady  leaden  keel — twa 
yards  lang — breadth  o'  beam  three  inches — and  mountin  a 
hunder  and  fifty  hyucks — 

*  This  is  an  implement  with  a  number  of  fly-hooks  attached  to  it ;  and  it 
is  worked  out  into  the  water  from  the  shore,  somewhat  after  the  fashion  in 
which  a  paper-kite  is  piqued  against  the  wind. 


f>0!)  An  Ahirmhitj  Haul 

Tickler,    A  first-rate  man-of-war. 

SheylienL  I've  seen  MX-  in  the  season  at  ween  spring  find 
Niimmer,  secure  ten  di//en  wi'  the  otter  at  a  Kindle  launch. 
Hut  in  October  twa  di//,en's  no  to  bo  despised  --tho  half  o' 
them  bein'  about,  the  si/.e  o'  herrins,  and  (be  ball'  o'  them  about 
the  si/.e  o'  haddocks,  —and  a  no — but  ho's  a  groy  trout — 

Tickler.   Sabno  1'Yrox  ? 

Shepherd.    As  bi^'s  :i  cod. 

Tickler.    Well,  .lames? 

SfapKtflL  I  then  thocht  I  \vonld  take  :i  look  o'  some  nicht 
lines  I  had  set  twa-three  days  sin',  and  be^an  pu'in  awil  at 
tin*  lanovst  \vi'  some  five  score  o'  hvncks,  baited  for  piko 
and  «•<•!,  \vi'  trotit.  ami  partail,  fro^s,  chicken  heads,  hen-«juts, 
some  mice,  some  moles,  and  some  water-rats  for  (here's  n:u» 
settin  bonn's  to  tlu>  voracity  o'  thae  sharks  and  serpents — 
and  if.  was  like  drawin  :i  net.  At.  length  pike  and  (V(>1  bewail 
makin  lln«ir  a|>|x-arance,  tirst  a  pike  -then  an  eel — wi'  the 
niaist  nnerrin  n»^ula.rity  »>'  snct-ession  just,  as  if  yon  had 
puffin  them  on  sac  for  a  ploy  !  "  Is  there  never  to  be  an  end 
o'this?"  I  cried  to  inysel  ;  and  by  the  time  that,  walkin 
backwards,  I  had  reached  the  road,  that  ^an^s  romf  the  bay 
wi'  a  b'Mi.l  enclosin  afwetMi  it  an  the  wafer-ed^o  a  bit 
bonny  ^rass-meadow  and  twa-thix'e-  trees  the  same  that 
your  accomplished  freen,  (leor^e  Moir,  * — made  sac  tastefu'  a 
sketch  o' — thoro,  wnll  ye  Ixdievo  me — were  Ivin  tive-and- 
twnnty  <<cls  and  live  and  -twnnl  v  pikes — ^in  all  saxtv  till  I 
could  hae  drt'a.mt  that  tin*  meadow  had  been  part,  o'  the  bay 
that  moment  drained  by  somo  sort  o'  subterraneous  suction — • 
and  that,  a'  the  fishy  life  the  water  had  contained  was  noo 
wallopin  and  wrin^lin  in  the  sudden  sunshine  o'  unexpected 

*  A  ili--i  ln..Mii:ili«-,l  nnMiilxT  of  (ho  Scoltlsh  Ixir,  iind  (lio  wrllor  of  ninny 
iwlmlniblo  pa  porn  \\\  /i/dcA-j/'.NK/'s  U,f</,r .  in,  •;  C<«r  somo  timo  l'r»>ft«sm»r  of 
KhcloiU-  uii«l  Mollt<H  LoltivH  In  tho  rnivornlt-y  of  Killnburjjh,  ftt\tl  nftorw:inlH 
Sh.M-iir  of  K.^HN  Khtre. 


O/  AW*  «*/;,/  /':'  f>07 

day.  1  brak  :i  branch  :i(T  an  ash. and  ran  in  atnouo-  them  wi' 
my  runo-.  louudoriu  awa  rieht  ami  left.  :uul  loupin  out  o'  the 
way  o'  tho  pikes,  some  of  which  showed  fcoht,  and  otYercd  to 
attack  mo  on  my  am  tilon\on(,  ami  1  was  oMim'il  to  wrostlo 
wi'  an  orl  that  s{HH%l«Hl  up  tno  till  his  t'auKls  woro  woinuloil 
roniul  my  lo«;s.  tluH^hs.  ami  lunlv.  in  ovor  sa<*  mony  plios. 
and  his  snako  hoail— oi'h  !  tlio  n^lv  auKl  stM-jxMit  thrust  *>nt- 
owor  inv  shouthor — ami  Itissiu  in  my  face  till  1  tlan^  him  a 
fair  bark  fa',  ami  (hou  ru^^in  him  frao  mo  fauUl  hy  fault! 

strooluomul  liim  out  a'  his  lon^tli  -and  trotUin  (>n  liis  tail, 
siMit  his  wiokot  ^jn^M'it  to  >oom  ahout  IMI  tlu-tiorv  lako  wi'  his 
faithor,  tho  ^roat  olrauon. 

.\\>rth  (in  the  .(r,;vr\  lla!  ha!  ha!  our  inimitabh>  pastor 
has  roaohoil  his  i;raml  oliinaotorio  ! 

Tickler  ^  in  the  /SheJ  ).  And  wlioro,  my  dt\'ir«latnos,  aro  tlioy 
all?  Hid  you  hrini;-  tlu^m  alon«;-  with  you? 

>V;c;>//cT</.  I  loft  tho  pikos  to  l>o  t'otohoil  forrit  hy  tho  MotYat, 
carrier. 

Tickler.    And  thoools? 

Shepherd.  Tho  sorpont  1  overthrow  had  swallowed  up  all 
the  rest. 

Tickler.  AVe  must  send  a  cart  for  him  dead  stomachs  do 
not  digest  ;  and  by  making  a  slit  in  his  belly  wo  shall  recover 
the  rest  little  tho  worst1  for  wear  and  letting  them  loose  in 
the  loni;  ij'ass,  have  an  eel  hunt. 

.\\irth  (in   the    Arlnn-}.   U  ho   can  i;ivo    me  a  bit  of  sticking- 

pUater? 

iS/ic[>hcnt.  1  prophesied  von  would  i*ut  yoursel.  Tliere's  nae 
Btickin-plaistor  about  tlio  touu;  but  IKM'O'S  an  auld  baiu'hlo,* 
iind  if  onybodv  will  lend  mo  a  knife,  I 'so  cut  alY  a  bit  o'  tho 
sole,  and  when  wool  soaked  wi'  bluid.  it  'II  stick  like  a  sooker 
— -Oi  1  can  cut  a  IT  a  bit  waddin  t'rao  this  auld  hat  some 


508  Lord  North  and  the  Forest  King. 

tramper's  left  ahint  her  baith  hat  and  bauchle — and  it  may 
happen  to  stainch  the  bludin — or  best  of  a'>  let  me  rug  aff  a 
bit  o'  this  remnant  o'  an  auld  sheep-skin  that  maun  hae 
belanged  to  the  foot-board  o'  some  gig — and  wi'  the  woo 
neist  your  skin,  your  chin  will  be  comfortable  a'  the  nicht — 
though  it  should  set  in  a  hard  frost. 

[SHEPHERD  advances  to  the  Arbor — but  after  a  single  glance 
into  the  interior,  comes  flying  back  to  his  stance  on  the  wings 
of  fear. 

North  (in  the  Arbor).  James  ?     James  ?     James  ? 
Shepherd.  A  warlock  !  A  warlock  !  A  warlock  !  The  king 
o'  the  warlocks  !  The  king  o'  the  warlocks !     The  king  o'  the 
warlocks ! 

[From  the  Arbor  issues  CHRISTOPHER  in  the  character  of 
LORD  NORTH — in  a  rich  court  dress — bag  and  wig — 
chapeau-bras — and  sword. 

North  (kneeling  on  one  knee).  Have  I  the  honor  to  be 
in  presence  of  Prince  Charles  Edward  Stuart  Hogg  ?  My 
sovereign  liege  and  no  Pretender — accept  the  homage  of 
your  humble  servant — too  proud  of  his  noble  king  to  be  a 
slave. 

Shepherd  (graciously  giving  his  hand  to  kiss).    Rise ! 
[From  the  Shed  issues  TIMOTHY  in  the  regimentals  of  the  Old 

Edinburgh  Volunteers. 

Tickler  (kneeling  on  one  knee).  Hail !  King  of  the  Forest ! 
Shepherd  (graciously  giving  his  hand  to  kiss).  Rise  ! — Let 
Us — supported  on  the  arms  of  Our  two  most  illustrious  sub 
jects — enter  Our  Palace. 

[Enter  the  Forest  King  and  the  two  Lords  in  Waiting  into 
TIBBIE'S. 


A  Wren's  Nest  or  an  Ant-hill?  509 

SCENE  II. — Interior  of  TIBBIE'S — Grand  Hall,  or  Kitchen 
Parlor. 

NORTH,  TICKLER,  and  SHEPHERD. 

Shepherd.  A  cosy  bield,  sirs,  this  o'  Tibbie's — just  like  a 
bit  wren's  nest. 

North.  Methinks  'tis  liker  an  ant-hill. 

TicJder.  Beehive. 

Shepherd.  A  wren's  nest's  round  and  theekit  wi'  moss — sae 
is  Tibbie's  ;  a  wren's  nest  has  a  wee  bit  canny  hole  in  the 
side  o't  for  the  birdies  to  hap  in  and  out  o',  aiblins  wi'  a 
hangin  leaf  to  hide  and  fend  by  way  o'  door — and  sae  has 
Tibbie's ;  a  wren's  nest's  aye  dry  on  the  inside,  though 
drappin  on  the  out  wi'  dew  or  rain — and  sae  is  Tibbie's  ;  a 
wren's  nest's  for  ordinar  biggit  in  a  retired  spat,  yet  within 
hearin  o'  the  hum  o'  men,  as  weel's  o'  water,  be  it  linn  or 
lake — and  sae  is  Tibbie's  ;  a  wren's  nest's  no  easy  fund,  yet 
when  you  happen  to  keek  on't,  ye  wunner  hoo  ye  never  saw 
the  happy  housie  afore — and  sae  is't  wi'  Tibbie's  ;  therefore, 
sirs,  for  sic  reasons,  and  a  thousand  mair,  I  observed,  "a 
cosy  bield  this  o'  Tibbie's — just  like  a  bit  wren's  nest."  Sir  ? 

North.  An  ant-hill's  like  some  small  natural  eminence 
growing  out  of  the  green  ground — and  so  is  Tibbie's  ;  an 
ant-hill  is  prettily  thatched  with  tiny  straw  and  grass-blades, 
and  leaves  and  lichens — and  so  is  Tibbie's  ;  an  ant-hill,  in 
worst  weather,  is  impervious  to  the  elements,  trembles  not 
in  its  calm  interior,  nor — howl  till  ye  split,  ye  tempests — 
at  any  blast  doth  Tibbie's  ;  an  ant-hill,  spontaneous  birth 
of  the  soil  though  it  seems  to  be,  hath  its  own  order  of 
architecture,  and  was  elaborated  by  its  own  dwellers — and 
how  wonderfully  full  of  accommodation,  when  all  the  rooms 
at  night  become  the  rooms  of  sleep — just  like  Tibbie's  ;  an 


510  Or  a  Beehive  ? 

ant-hill,  though  apparently  far  from  market,  never  runs  out 
of  provisions — nor,  when  "  winter  lingering  chills  the  lap  of 
May,"  ever  once  doth  Tibbie's  ;  Solomon,  speaking  of  an  ant 
hill,  said,  "  Look  at  the  ant,  thou  sluggard — consider  her 
ways  and  be  wise,"— and  so  now  saith  North,  sitting  in 
Tibbie's  ;  so  for  these,  and  a  thousand  other  reasons,  of 
which  I  mention  but  one — namely,  that  here,  too,  as  there, 
is  felt  the  balmy  influence  of  the  mountain-dew — I  said, 
"  methinks  'tis  like  an  ant-hill."  Sir  ? 

Tickler.  A  beehive  is  a  straw-built  shed,  loving  the  lown- 
ness,  without  fearing  the  wind,  and  standing  in  a  sheltered 
place,  where  yet  the  breezes  have  leave  to  come  and  go  at 
will,  wafting  away  the  creatures  with  whom  work  all  day 
long  is  cheerful  as  play,  outward  or  homeward  bound,  to  or 
fro  among  the  heathery  hills  where  the  wild  honey  grows 
— and  these  are  pretty  points  of  resemblance  to  Tibbie's ;  a 
beehive  is  never  mute — for  all  that  restless  noise  of  industry 
sinks  away  with  the  setting  sun  into  a  steady  murmur,  fit 
music  for  the  moonlight — and  so  is  it,  when  all  the  house 
hold  are  at  rest,  in  Tibbie's ;  a  beehive  wakens  at  peep  of 
day — its  inmates  losing  not  a  glint  of  the  morning,  early 
as  the  laverocks  waukening  by  the  daisy's  side — and  so,  well 
knows  Aurora,  does  Tibbie's ;  a  beehive  is  the  perfection 
of  busy  order,  where,  without  knowing  it,  every  worker 
by  instinct  obeys  the  Queen — and  even  so  seemeth  it  to  be 
in  Tibbie's  ;  so  for  these,  and  a  thousand  other  reasons,  of 
which  I  mention  but  two,  that  it  standeth  in  a  land  over 
flowing  with  milk  and  honey,  and  wanteth  but  an  eke,  I  said 
— Beehive.  Sir  ? 

Shepherd.  Noo,  that's  what  I  ca'  poetical  eemagery  applied 
to  real  life. 

North.  There  cannot  be  a  doubt  that  we  three  are  three 
men  of  genius. 


The  G-ame-lags  are  emptied.  511 

Shepherd.  Equal  to  ony  ither  sax. 

Tickler.  Hem !  How  rarely  is  that  endowment  united 
with  talent  like  ours  ! 

North.  Stuff.  A  set  of  nameless  ninnies,  at  every  stum 
bling  step  they  take,  painfully  feeling  their  intellectual 
impotence,  modestly  abjure  all  claim  to  talent,  of  which  no 
line  is  visible  on  their  mild  unmeaning  mugs,  and  are  satis 
fied  in  their  humility  that  nature  to  them,  her  favored 
blockheads — her  own  darling  dunces — and  more  especial 
chosen  sumphs — in  compensation  gave  the  gift  of  genius — 
the  fire  which  old  Prometheus  had  to  steal  from  heaven.  . 

Shepherd.  Bits  o'  Cockney  creturs  wi'  mealy  mouths,  lookin 
unco  weak  and  wae-begane,  on  their  recovery  frae  a  painful 
confinement  consequent  on  the  birth  o'  a  pair  o'  twuns  o* 
rickety  sonnets. 

Tickler.  A  pair  o'  twins.     Four  ? 

Shepherd.  Na — twa  sonnets  that  'ill  never  in  this  warld  be 
able  to  gang  their  lanes,  but  hae  to  be  held  up  by  leading- 
strings  o'  red  ribbons  round  their  waists,  or  itherwise  hae  to 
be  contented  to  creep  or  crawl  like  clocks. 

(Enter  BILLY  and  PALMER  with  their  game-bags,  which  they 
empty  on  their  division  of  the  floor.) 

North.  Not  a  bad  day's  sport,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  You  dinna  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  and  Sooth- 
side,  this  blessed  day,  slew  a'  that  ggem  ? 

North.  We  did — and  more. 

(Enter  CAMPBELL  and  FITZ-TIBBIE  with  their  game-bags,  which 
they  empty  on  their  division  of  the  floor.) 

Shepherd.  You  dinna  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  and  Sooth- 
side,  this  blessed  day,  slew  a'  that  ggem  ? 

North.  We  did — and  more. 

(Enter  MON.  CADET  and  KING  PEPIN  with  their  game-bags, 
which  they  empty  on  their  division  of  the  floor.) 


512  The  Game-bags  are  emptied. 

Shepherd.  You  dinna  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  and  Sooth- 
side,  this  blessed  day,  slew  a'  that  ggem  ? 
North.  We  did — and  more. 

(Enter  SIR  DAVID  GAM  and  TAPPYTOORIE  with  their  game- 
lags,  which  they  empty  on  their  division  of  the  floor.) 

Shepherd.  You  dinna  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  and  Sooth- 
side,  this  blessed  day,  slew  a'  that  ggem  ? 
North.  We  do — and  more. 

(Enter  AMBROSE  and  PETER  with  their  game-hags,  which 
they  empty  on  their  division  of  the  floor.) 

Shepherd.  You  dinna  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  and  Sooth- 
side,  this  blessed  day,  slew  a'  that  ggem  ?  ! !  Soothside  ? 

Tickler.  I  do — and  more. 

Shepherd.  Then  are  ye  twa  o'  the  greatest  leears  that  ever 
let  aff  a  gun. 

North.  Or  drew  a  long  bow.  Where  the  deuce  are  the  hares  ? 

Tickler.  Where  the  devil  are  the  rabbits  ? 

(Enter  ROUGH  ROBIN  and  SLEEK  SAM  with  their  game- 
bags,  which  they  empty  on  their  division  of  the  floor — that 
is,  on  the  table.) 

Shepherd.  Fourteen  fuds !  Aucht  maukins,  and  sax-bor- 
oughmongers,  as  I  howp  to  be  saved  ! 

North.  I  read,  with  indignation  and  disgust,  of  the  slaughter 
by  one  gun  of  fivescore  brace  of  birds  between  eight  o'clock 
and  two. 

Shepherd.  A  chiel  micht  as  weel  pride  himsel  on  baggin  in 
a  poutry-yard  as  mony  chickens,  wi'  here  and  there  an  auld 
clockin  hen  and  an  occasional  how-towdie — and  to  croon  a', 
the  bubbly-jock  himsel,  pretendin  to  pass  him  aff  for  a  caper 
cailzie.  But  I  ca'  this  sport. 

North.  Which  corner,  James,  dost  thou  most  admire  ? 

Shepherd.  Let's  no  be  rash.  That  nyuck  o'  paitricks  kythes  * 

*  Kythes— shows  itself. 


The  Gar-Cock  !  513 

unco  bonny,'  wi'  its  mild  mottled  licht — the  burnished  broon 
harmoniously  mixin  wi'  the  siller  grey  in  a  style  o'  colorin 
understood  but  by  that  sweet  penter  o'  still  life,  Natur  ;  and 
a  body  canna  weel  look,  without  a  sort  o'  sadness,  on  the 
closed  een  o'  the  puir  silly  creturs,  as  their  heads — crimsoned 
some  o'  them  wi'  their  ain  bluid,  and  ithers  wi'  feathers, 
bricht  in  the  pride  o'  sex,  auld  cocks  and  young  cocks — lie 
twusted  and  wrenched  by  the  disorderin  haun  o'  death— 
outower  their  wings  that  shall  whirr  nae  mair — rich  in  their 
radiance  as  flowers  lyin  broken  by  the  wund  on  a  bed  o' 
moss  ! 

Tickler.  James,  you  please  me  much. 

Shepherd.  That  glow  o'  grouse  is  mair  gorgeous,  yet  bonnier 
it  mayna  be — though  heaped  up  higher  again'  the  wa' — 
and  gloomin  as  weel  as  gleamin  wi'  a  shadowier  depth  and  a 
prouder  pomp  o'  color  lavished  on  the  dead.  There's  some 
thing  heathery  in  the  hues  there  that  breathes  o'  the  wilder 
ness  ;  and  ane  canna  look  on  their  legs — mony  o'  them  lyin 
broken — sae  thick  cled  wi'  close,  white,  saft  feathers — with 
out  thinkin  o'  the  wunter-snaw  !  The  Gor-Cock  !  His  name 
bespeaks  his  natur — and  o'  a'  the  wild  birds  o'  Scotland,  uane 
mair  impressive  to  my  imagination  and  my  heart.  Oh  !  how 
mony  thousan'  dawns  have  evanished  into  the  forgotten  warld 
o'  dreams,  at  which  I  hae  heard  him  crawin  in  the  silence  o' 
natur,  as  I  lay  in  my  plaid  by  mysel  on  the  hill-side,  and 
kent  by  that  bold  trumpetin  that  mornin  was  at  hand, 
without  needin  to  notice  the  sweet  token  o'  her  approach  in 
the  clearer  licht  o'  the  wee  spring-well  in  the  greensward  at 
my  feet ! 

North.  James,  you  please  me  much. 

Shepherd.  Yet  that  angle  o'  black-cocks  has  its  charms,  too, 
to  ma  een,  for  though  there's  less  vareeity  in  the  colorin, 
and  a  fastidious  critic  micht  ca'  the  spotty  heap  monotonous, 


514  The  G-rey-Hens. 

yet,  sullen  as  it  seems,  it  glistens  wi'  a  kind  o'  purple,  sic  as 
I  hae  seen  on  a  lowerin  clud  on  a  mirk  day,  when  the  sun 
was  shinin  on  the  thunder,  or  on  the  loch  below,  that  lay, 
though  it  was  meridian,  in  its  ain  nicht. 

Tickler.  James,  you  please  me  much. 

Shepherd.  O  !  thae  saft,  silken,  but  sair  ruffled  backs  and 
breists  o'  that  cruelly  killed  crood  o'  bonny  grey-hens  and 
pullets — cut  aff  in  their  sober  matronship  and  gleesome 
maidenhood — whilk  the  mair  beautiful,  'twould  tak  a  mair 
skeely  *  sportsman  than  the  Shepherd  to  decide — I  could 
kneel  doun  on  the  floor  and  kiss  ye,  and  gather  ye  up  in  my 
airms,  and  press  you  to  my  heart,  till  the  feel  o'  your  feathers 
filled  my  veins  wi'  love  and  pity,  and  I  grat  to  think  that 
never  mair  would  the  hill-fairies  welcome  the  gleam  o'  your 
plumage  risin  up  in  the  morning  licht  amang  the  green  plats 
on  the  slopin  sward  that,  dippin  doun  in  the  valley,  retains 
here  and  there  amang  the  decayed  birkwood,  as  loth  to  lose 
them,  a  few  small  stray  sprinklens  o'  the  heather-bells. 

Tickler.  James,  you  please  me  much. 

North.  I  killed  two-thirds  of  them  with  Old  Trusty — slap 
— bang  right  and  left,  without  missing  a  shot — 

Tickler.  Singing  out,  *'  that's  my  bird,"  on  a  dozen  occa 
sions  when  it  dropped  at  least  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards- 
right  in  an  opposite  direction — from  the  old  sinner's  nose. 

Shepherd.  What  was  the  greatest  nummer  ye  brocht  doun 
at  a  single  discharge  ? 

North.  One. 

Shepherd.  That's  contemptible.  Ye  o'  the  auld  Lake-school 
are  never  contented  excepp  ye  kiver  your  bird,  sae  that  if  ye 
dinna  tak  them  at  the  crossin,  ye  shoot  a  haill  day  without 
killin  a  brace  at  a  blow ;  but  in  shootin  I  belang  to  the  new 
Mountain-school,  and  fire  wi'  a  general  aim  in  til  the  heart  o' 

•  Skeely—  skilful. 


The  Shepherd  as  a  Shot.  515 

the  kivey,  and  trusting  to  luck  to  gar  three  or  four  play 
thud  ;  and  it's  no  an  uncommon  case  to  pick  up  half-a-dizzen, 
after  the  first  flaught  o'  fire  and  feathers  has  ceased  to  dazzle 
ma  een,  and  I  hae  had  time  to  rin  in  amang  the  dowgs,  and 
pu'  the  ggem  out  o'  the  mouths  o'  the  rabiawtors.  It  was 
nae  farder  back  nor  the  day  afore  yesterday,  that  I  killed  and 
wounded  nine — but  to  be  sure  that  was  wi'  baith  barrels — 
though  I  thocht  at  the  time — for  my  een  was  shut — that  I 
had  only  let  aff  ane — and  wondered  that  the  left  had  been 
sae  bluidy, — but  baith  are  gran'  scatterers,  and  disperse  the 
hail  like  chaff  frae  the  fanners  on  a  wundy  day.  Even  them 
on  the  edge  o'  the  outside  are  no  safe  when  I  fire  intil  the 
middle,  and  I've  knawn  me  knock  heels-ower-head  mair  nor 
ane  belangin  to  anither  set,  that  had  taken  wing  as  I  was 
ettlin  at  their  neighbors. 

Tickler.  I  killed  two-thirds  of  them,  James. 

Shepherd.  That's  four-thirds  atween  you  twa — and  at  whase 
door  maun  be  laid  the  death  o'  the  ither  half? 

Tickler.  Kit  with  Crambo  killed  a  few  partridges  in  a  turnip 
field,  where  they  lay  like  stones — an  old  black-cock  that  had 
been  severely  if  not  dangerously  wounded  by  a  weasel,  and 
fell  out  of  bounds,  I  suspect  from  weakness — an  ancient  grey 
hen  that  flew  at  the  rate  of  some  five  miles  an  hour — a  hare 
sitting,  which  he  had  previously  missed — and  neither  flying 
nor  sitting,  but  on  the  hover,  that  owl.  How  the  snipe  came 
into  his  possession  I  have  not  learned,  but  I  .have  reason  to 
believe  that  he  found  it  in  a  state  of  stupor,  and  I  should  not 
be  surprised  were  you,  James,  to  blow  into  his  bill,  to  see 
Jack  resuscitated — 

Shepherd  (putting  the  snipe's  bill  into  his  mouth,  and  puffing 
into  him  the  breath  of  life).  Is  his  een  beginnin  to  open  ? 

North.  Twinkling  like  a  duck's  in  thunder. 

Shepherd.  He's  dabbin. 


516  The  Shepherd's  Dexterity. 

North.  Hold  him  fast,  James,  or  he'll  be  off. 

Shepherd.    Let  doun  the  wundow,  Tickler,  let  doun  the 
wundow.     Oh  !  ye  clumsy  coof  !  there  he  has  struggled  himsel 
out  o'  my  hauns,  and's  aff  to  the  mairsh  to  leeve  on  suction  ! 
[Enter  TIBBIE  and  DOLLY  to  lay  the  cloth,  fyc.) 

Tickler.  Symptoms  of  dinner. 

Shepherd.  Wi'  your  leave,  sirs,  I'll  gie  Mr.  Awmrose  the 
hares  to  pit  intil  the  gig. 

[  Gives  Mr.  AMBROSE  the  hares  ^who  disappears  four-in-hand. 

North.  Whose  gig,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Mine.  I'm  expeckin  company  to  be  wi'  me  a' 
neist  week — and  a  tureen  o'  hare-soup's  no  worth  eaten  wi' 
fewer  than  three  hares  in't ;  sae  sax  hares  will  just  mak  twa 
tureens  o'  hare-soup,  and  no  ower  rich  either — and  the  third 
and  fourth  days  we  can  devoor  the  ither  twa  roasted ;  but  for 
fear  my  visitors  should  get  stawed  o'  hare — and  auld  Burton, 
in  his  anatomy,  ca's  hare  a  melancholy  meat — and  I  should  be 
averse  to  onybody  committin  suicide  in  my  house — Tappy, 
my  man,  let  me  see  whether  you  or  me  can  gather  up  on  our 
aucht  fingers  and  twa  thooms  the  inaist  multitude  o'  the  legs 
o'  black-cocks,  grey-hens,  red  grouse,  and  paitricks  ;  and  gin 
ye  beat  me,  you  shall  get  a  bottle  o'  whisky  ;  and  gin  I  beat 
you,  I  shall  not  put  you  to  the  expense  o'  a  gill.  (Aside)  — 
The  pech  has  twa  cases  o'  fingers,  wi'  airn-sinnies,  and  I  never 
kent  the  cretur's  equal  at  a  clutch. 

The  SHEPHERD  and  TAPPYTOORIE  emulously  clutch   the 
game,  and  carry  off  some  twenty  brace  of  sundries. 

Tickler.  James,  you  please  me  much. 

North.  You  astonish  me,  James. 

Shepherd.  Some  folk  are  easily  pleased,  and  some  as  easily 
astonished — but  what's  keepin  the  denner  ? 

(Enter  TIBBIE,  and  DOLLY,  and   SHUSHEY,  AMBROSE, 
MON.   CADET,  PETER,  CAMPBELL,  BILLY,  PALMER, 


A  Highland  Repast.  517 

ROUGH  ROBIN,  SLEEK  SAM,  KING  PEPIN,  SIR  DA  vie 
GAM  and  TAPPYTOORIE,  with  black- grouse-soup,  red- 
grouse-soup,  partridge-soup,  hare-soup,  rabbit-soup,  potato- 
soup, pease-soup,  brown-soup, white-soup,  hotch-potch,cocky~ 
leeky,  sheep's-head-broth,  kail,  and  rumbledethumps.} 

Shepherd.  Oh,  sir!  but  you've  a  profound  knowledge  o' 
human  natur  !  Eatin  at  ane's  ease,  ane's  imagination  can  flee 
up  into  the  empyrean — like  an  eagle  soarin  up  the  lift  wi'  a 
lamb  in  his  talons,  and  then  fauldin  up  his  wings,  far  aboon 
shot  o'  the  fowler,  on  the  tapmost  o'  a  range  o'  cliffs,  leisurely 
devourin't,  while  ever  and  anon,  atween  the  rugs,  he  glances 
his  yellow  black-circled  een  far  and  wide  ower  the  mountain 
ous  region,  and  afore  and  after  every  mouthfu',  whattin  his 
beak  wi'  his  claws,  yells  to  the  echoes  that  afar  aff  return  a 
faint  but  a  fierce  reply. 

Tickler.  Does  he  spit  out  feathers  and  fur  ? 

Shepherd.  He  spits  out  naething — devourin  bird  and  beast, 
stoop  and  roup,  bones,  entrails,  and  a',  and  leavin  after  his 
repast  but  a  wheen  wee  pickles  o'  bluidy  down,  soon  dried  by 
the  sun,  or  washed  away  by  the  rain,  the  only  evidence  there 
had  been  a  murder. 

North.  The  eagle  is  not  a  glutton. 

Shepherd.    Wha  said  he  was  a  glutton  ? 

North.  Living  constantly  in  the  open  air — 

Shepherd.  And  in  a  high  latitude. 

North.  Yes,  James — for  hours  every  day  in  his  life  sailing 
in  circles  some  thousand  feet  above  the  sea. 

Shepherd.  In  circles,  noo  narrowin,  and  noo  widenin,  wi' 
sweepy  waftage,  that  seems  to  carry  its  ain  wund  amang  its 
wings — noo  speerally  wundin  up  the  air  stair-case  that  has 
nae  need  o'  steps,  till  you  could  swear  he  was  soarin  awa  to 
the  sun — and  noo  divin  doun  earthwards,  as  if  the  sun  had 
shot  him,  and  he  was  to  be  dashed  on  the  stanes  intil  a  blash 


518  The  Shepherd's  Peril 

o'  blind ;  but  in  the  pride  o'  his  pastime,  and  the  fierceness 
o'  his  glee,  had  been  that  self-willed  headlong  descent  frae 
the  bosom  o'  the  blue  lift,  to  within  fifty  fathom  o'  the  croon 
of  the  greenwood — -for  suddenly  si  an  tin  awa  across  the  chasm 
through  the  mist  o'  the  great  cataract,  he  has  already  voyaged 
a  league  o'  black  heather,  and,  eein  *  anither  arc  o'  the  merid 
ian,  taks  majestic  possession  of  a  new  domain  in  the  sky. 

Tickler.  No  wonder  he  is  sharp  set. 

Shepherd.     I  was  ance  in  an  eagle's  nest. 

Tickler.    When  a  child? 

Shepherd.  A  man — and  no  sae  very  a  young  ane.  I  was  let 
doun  the  face  o'  the  red  rocks  of  Loch  Aven,  that  affront 
Cairngorm,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  perpendicular,  by  a  hair 
rape,  and  after  swingin  like  a  pendulum  for  some  minutes 
back  and  forrit  afore  the  edge  o'  the  platform,  I  succeeded  in 
establishin  mysel  in  the  eyrie. 

Tickler.  What  a  fright  the  poor  eaglets  must  have  got ! 

Shepherd.  You  ken  naething  about  eaglets.  Wi'  them  fear 
and  anger's  a'  ane — and  the  first  thing  they  do  when  taken 
by  surprise  amang  their  native  sticks  by  man  or  beast,  is  to 
fa'  back  on  their  backs,  and  strike  up  wi'  their  talons,  and 
glare  wi'  their  een,  and  snap  wi'  their  beaks,  and  yell  like  a 
couple  o'  hell-cats.  Providentially  their  feathers  werena  fu' 
grown,  or  they  would  hae  flown  in  my  face  and  driven  me 
ower  the  cliff. 

Tickler.  Were  you  not  armed  ? 

Shepherd.  What  a  slaughter-house  ! — What  a  cemetery ! 
Haill  hares,  and  halves  o'  hares,  and  lugs  o'  hares,  and  fuds  o' 
hares,  and  tatters  o'  skins  o'  hares,  a'  confused  wi'  the  flesh 
and  feathers  o'  muirfowl  and  wild  dyucks,  and  ither  kinds  o' 
ggem,  fresh  and  rotten,  undevoored  and  digested  animal 
maitter  mixed  in  blue-mooldy  or  bloody-red  masses — emittin 

*  Eein— eyeing. 


In  an  Eagle's  Nest.  519 

a  strange  oharnel-house,  and  yet  lardner-smell — thickenin  the 
air  o'  the  eyrie — for  though  a  blast  cam  sughin  by  at  times, 
it  never  was  able  to  carry  awa  ony  o'  the  stench,  which  I  was 
obliged  to  breathe,  till  I  grew  sick,  and  feared  I  was  gaun  to 
swarf,  and  fa'  into  the  loch  that  I  saw,  but  couldria  hear,  far 
doun  below  in  anither  warld. 

Tickler.  No  pocket-pistol  ? 

Shepherd.  The  Glenlivet  was  ma  salvation.  I  took  a  richt 
gude  wullie-waucht  * — the  mistiness  afore  ma  een  cleared  awa 
— the  waterfa'  in  my  lugs  dried  up — the  soomin  in  my  head 
subsided — my  stamack  gied  ower  bockin — and  takin  my  seat 
on  a  settee,  I  began  to  inspect  the  premises  wi'  mair  precee- 
sion,  to  mak  a  verbal  inventory  o'  the  furnitur,  and  to  study 
the  appearance  or  character  o'  the  twa  guests  that  still  con 
tinued  lyin  back  on  their  backs,  and  regardin  me  wi'  a  malig 
nity  that  was  fearsome,  but  noo  baith  mute  as  death. 

North.  They  had  made  up  their  minds  to  be  murdered. 

Shepherd.  I  suspect  it  was  the  ither  way.  A'  on  a  sudden 
doun  comes  a  sugh  frae  the  sky — and  as  if  borne  each  on  a 
whurlwund — the  yell  and  the  glare  o'  the  twa-auld  birds  !  A 
mortal  man  daurin  to  invade  their  nest !  And  they  dashed 
at  me  as  if  they  wad  hae  dung  me  intil  the  rock — for  my 
back  was  at  the  wa' — and  I  was  haudin  on  wi'  my  hauns — 
and  aff  wi'  my  feet  frae  the  edge  o'  the  hedge — and  at  every 
buffet  I,  like  an  inseck,  clang  closer  to  the  cliff.  Dazed  wi' 
that  incessant  passin  to  and  fro  o'  plumes,  and  pennons,  and 
beaks,  and  talons,  rushin  and  rustlin  and  yellin,  I  shut  my 
een,  and  gied  mysel  up  for  lost ;  when  a'  at  ance  a  thocht 
struck  me  that  I  would  coup  the  twa  imps  ower  the  brink, 
and  that  the  parent  birds  would  dive  doun  after  them  to  the 
bottom  o'  the  abyss. 

Tickler.  What  presence  of  mind  ! 

*  Wullie-waucht— large  draught. 


520  The  Shepherd's  Peril 

North.    Genius  ! 

Shepherd.  I  flang  myself  on  them — and  I  hear  them  yet  in 
the  gullerals.  They  were  eatin  intil  my  inside  ;  and  startin 
up  wi'  a'  their  beaks  and  a'  their  talons  inserted,  I  flang  aff 
my  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  them  stickin  till't,  ower  the  pre 
cipice  ! 

Tickler.  Whew! 

Shepherd.  Ay — ye  may  weel  cry  whew  !  Dreadf  u'  was  the 
yellin,  for  ae  glaff  and  ae  glint ;  *  far  doun  it  deadened  ;  and 
then  I  heard  nocht.  After  a  while  I  had  courage  to  lay 
mysel  doun  on  my  belly,  and  look  ower  the  brink — and  I  saw 
the  twa  auld  eagles  wheelin  and  skimmin,  and  dashin  amang 
the  white  breakers  o'  the  black,  loch,  madly  seekin  to  save  the 
drownin  demons,  but  their  talons  were  sae  entangled  in  the 
tartan,  and  after  floating  awhile  wi'  flappin  wings  in  vain,  they 
gied  ower  strugglin,  and  the  wreck  drifted  towards  the  shore 
wi'  their  dead  bodies. 

Tickler.  Pray,  may  I  ask,  my  dear  Shepherd,  how  you 
returned  to  the  top  ? 

Shepherd.  There  cam  the  rub,  sirs.  My  freens  aboon, 
seeing  my  claes,  wi'  the  eaglets  flaffin,  awa  doun  the  abyss, 
never  doubted  that  I  was  in  them — and  they  set  up  sic  a 
shriek  !  Awa  roun'  they  set  to  turn  the  richt  flank  o'  the 
precipice  by  the  level  of  the  Aven  that  rins  out  sae  yellow 
frae  the  dark-green  loch,  because  o'  the  color  o'  the  blue 
slates  that  lie  shivered  in  heaps  o'  strata  in  that  lovely  soli 
tude — hardly  howpin  to  be  able  to  yield  me  ony  assistance, 
in  case  they  should  observe  me  attemptin  to  soom  ashore — 
nor  yet  to  recover  the  body  gin  I  was  drooned.  Silly  creturs  ! 
there  was  I  for  hours  on  the  platform,  while  they  were  waitin 
for  my  corp  to  come  ashore.  At  last,  ashore  cam  what  they 
supposed  to  be  my  corp,  and  stickin  till't  the  twa  dead 

*  Ae  glaff  and  ae  glint— one  glimpse  and  one  flash. 


In  an  Eagle's  Nest.  521 

eaglets,  and  dashing  doun  upon't  even  when  it  had  reached 
the  shingle,  the  twa  savage  screamers  wi'  een  o'  lichtning ! 

luckier.  We  can  conjecture  their  disappointment,  James,  on 
finding  there  was  no  corpse. 

Shepherd.  I  shouted — but  natur's  self  seemed  deaf ;  I 
waved  my  bannet — but  natur's  self  seemed  blind.  There 
stood  the  great  deaf,  blind,  stupid  mountains — and  a'  that  I 
could  bear  was  ance  a  laigh  echo-like  laughter  frae  the  aim 
heart  o'  Cairngorm. 

Tickler.  At  last  they  recognized  the  Mountain-Bard  ? 

Shepherd.  And  awa  they  set  again  to  the  tap  to  pu'  me  up ; 
but  the  fules  in  their  fricht  had  let  the  rape  drap,  and  never 
thocht  o'  lookin  for't  when  they  were  below.  By  this  time 
it  was  wearin  late,  and  the  huge  shadows  were  stalkin  in  for 
the  nicht.  The  twa  auld  eagles  cam  back,  but  sae  changed, 
I  couldna  help  pityin  them,  for  they  had  seen  the  feathers  o' 
them  they  looed  sae  weel  wrapt  up,  a'  drookit  wi'  death,  in 
men's  plaids — and  as  they  keepit  sailin  slowly  and  discon 
solately  before  the  eyrie  in  which  there  was  naebody  sittin 
but  me,  they  werena  like  the  same  birds ! 

North.  No  bird  has  stronger  feelings  than  the  eagle. 

Shepherd.  That's  a  truth.     They  lay  but  twa  eggs. 

North.  You  are  wrong,  there,  James. 

Shepherd.  Twa  young  ones,  then,  is  the  average ;  for  gin 
they  lay  mair  eggs,  ane's  aften  rotten,  and  I'm  mistaen  if 
ae  eagle's  no  nearer  the  usual  number  than  fowre  for  an  eyrie 
to  send  forth  to  the  sky.  Then  they  marry  for  life — and  their 
annual  families  being  sina',  they  concentrate  on  a  single 
sinner  or  twa,  or  three  at  the  maist,  a'  the  passion  o'  their 
instinck,  and  savage  though  they  be,  they  fauld  their  wide 
wings  ower  the  down  in  their  "  procreant  cradle  "  on  the 
cliff,  as  tenderly  as  turtle-doves  on  theirs,  within  the  shadow 
o'  the  tree.  For  beautiful  is  the  gracious  order  o'  natur, 


522  The  Shepherd's  remorse. 

sirs,  and  we  maunna  think  that  the  mystery  o'  life  hasna  its 
ain  virtues  in  the  den  o'  the  wild  beast  and  the  nest  o'  the 
bird  o'  prey. 

Tickler.  And  did  not  remorse  smite  you,  James,  for  the 
murder  of  those  eaglets  ? 

Shepherd.  Aften,  and  sair.  What  business  had  I  to  be  let 
doun  by  a  hair-rape  intil  their  birthplace  ?  And,  alas !  how 
was  I  to  be  gotten  up  again — for  nae  hair-rape  cam  danglin 
atween  me  and  the  darkenin  weather-gleam.  I  began  to 
dout  the  efficacy  of  a  deathbed  repentance,  as  I  tried  to  tak 
account  o'  my  sins  a'  risin  up  in  sair  confusion — some  that  I 
had  clean  forgotten,  they  had  been  committed  sae  far  back  in 
youth,  and  never  suspected  at  the  time  to  be  sins  ava,  but 
noo  seemin  black,  and  no  easy  to  be  forgiven — though  bound 
less  be  the  mercy  that  sits  in  the  skies.  But,  thank  Heaven, 
there  was  an  end — for  a  while  at  least — o'  remorse  and  re 
pentance — and  room  in  my  heart  only  for  gratitude — for,  as 
if  let  doun  by  hauns  o'  angels,  there  again  dangled  the  hair- 
rape  wi'  a  noose-seat  at  the  end  o't,  safer  than  a  wicker-chair. 
I  stept  in  as  fearless  as  Lunardi,  and  wi' my  hauns  aboon  my 
head  glued  to  the  tether — and  my  hurdies,  and  a'  aneath  my 
hurdies,  interlaced  wi'  a  network  o'  loops  and  knots,  I  felt 
mysel  ascendin  and  ascendin  the  wa's,  till  I  heard  the  voices 
o'  them  hoistin.  Landed  at  the  tap,  you  may  be  sure  I  fell 
doun  on  my  knees — and  while  my  heart  was  beginning  to  beat 
and  loup  again,  quaked  a  prayer. 

North.  Thank  ye,  James.  I  have  heard  you  tell  the  tale 
better  and  not  so  well,  but  never  before  at  a  Noctes. 

North  (looking  up  at  the  Cuckoo).  Eight  o'clock !  It  is 
Saturday  night — and  Tickler  and  I  have  good  fourteen  miles 
to  drive  to  the  Castle  of  Indolence. 

"  O  blest  retirement  !  friend  to  Life's  decline  ! " 

Our  nags  must  be  all  bedded  before  twelve — for  there  must 


"  The  Days  are  shortening.  523 

be  11  o  intrusion  on  the  still  hours  of  Sabbath.     James,  we 
must  go. 

Shepherd.  I  declare  I  never  observed  Tibbie  takin  awa  the 
dishes  !  Sae  charmed,  sir,  hae  I  been  wi'  your  conversation, 
that  I  canna  tell  whether  this  be  my  first,  second,  or  third 

j«g? 

North.  Your  second. 
Shepherd.  Gude  nicht. 

[They  finish  the  second  jug,  but  seem  unwilling  to  rise. 

North.  James,  the  days  are  fast  shortening — alas — alas  ! 

Shepherd.  Let  them  shorten.  The  iiichts  'ill  be  sae  muckle 
the  langer — and  "  mortal  man,  who  liveth  here  by  toil,"  hae 
mair  time  for  waukin  as  weel  as  for  sleepiu  rest.  Wunter, 
wild  as  he  sometimes  is,  is  a  gracious  Season — and  in  the 
Forest  I  hae  kent  him  amaist  as  gentle  as  the  Spring. 
Indeed,  he  seems  to  me  to  be  gettin  safter  and  safter  in  his 
temper  ilka  year.  Frost  is  his  favorite  son — and  I  devoutly 
howp  there  'ill  never  be  ony  serious  quarrel  atween  them 
twa ;  for  Wunter  never  looks  sae  cheery  as  when  you  see 
him  gaun  linkin  haun  in  haun  wi'  fine  black  Frost.  Snaw  is 
Frost's  sister,  and  she's  a  boniiie  white-skinned  lassie,  wi' 
character  without  speck  or  stain.  She  cam  to  see  us  last 
Christmas,  but  stayed  only  about  a  week,  and  we  thocht  her 
lookin  rather  thin  ;  but  the  morning  afore  she  left  us,  I 
happened  to  see  her  on  the  hill  at  sunrise — and  oh  !  what  a 
breist ! 

North.  Like  that  of  the  sea-mew  or  the  swan. 

Shepherd.  Richt.  For  o'  a'  the  birds  that  sail  the  air,  thae 
twa  are  surely  the  maist  purely  beautifu'.  Then  they  come 
and  they  gae  just  like  the  snaw.  You  see  the  mew  fauldin 
her  wings  on  the  meadow  as  if  she  were  gaun  to  be  for  lang 
our  inland  guest — you  see  the  swan  floating  on  the  loch  as  if 


624  North  cannot  write  a  Sony. 

she  had  cast  anchor  for  the  Wunter  there — you  see  the  snaw 
settled  on  the  hill  as  if  she  never  would  forsake  the  sun  who 
looks  on  her  with  saftened  licht  —  but  neist  mornin  you 
daunner  out  to  the  brae — and  mew,  swan,  and  snaw  are  a' 
gane — melted  into  air — or  flown  awa  to  the  sea. 

North.  These  images  touch  my  heart.  Yet  how  happens 
it  that  my  own  imagination  does  not  supply  them,  and 
that  you,  my  dear  Shepherd,  have  to  bring  them  before 
the  old  man's  eyes  ? 

Shepherd.  Because  I  hae  genie. 

North.  And  I,  alas  !   have  none. 

Shepherd.  Dinna  look  sae  like  as  if  you  was  gaun  to  fa' 
a  greetin — for  I  only  answered  simply  a  simple  question, 
and  was  far  frae  meaning  to  deny  that  you  had  the  gift. 

North.  But  I  canna  write  a  sang,  Jamie — I  canna  write  a 
sang  ! 

Shepherd.  Nor  sing  ane  verra  weel  either,  sir  ;  for,  be  the 
tune  what  it  may,  ye  chant  them  a'  to  "  Stroudwater,"  and  I 
never  hear  you  without  thinkin  that  you  would  hae  made — 
a  monotonous  ane  to  be  sure,  but  a  pathetic  precentor.  O 
but  hoo  touchingly  would  ye  hae  gien  out  the  line  !  * 

North.  Allan  Cunningham,  and  William  Motherwell,  and 
you,  my  dear  James,  have  caught  the  true  spirit  of  the  old 
traditionary  strain — and,  seek  the  wide  world,  where  will 
there  be  found  such  a  lyrical  lark  as  he  whom,  not  in  vain, 
you  three  have  aspired  to  emulate — sweet  Robbie  Burns  ? 

Shepherd.  That's  richt,  sir.  I  was  wrang  in  ever  hinting  ae 
word  in  disparagement  o'  Burns's  Cottar's  Saturday  Night. 
But  the  truth  is,  you  see,  that  the  subjeck's  sae  heaped  up 
wi'  happiness,  and  sae  charged  wi'  a'  sorts  o'  sanctity — sae 
national  and  sae  Scottish — that  beautifu'  as  the  poem  is — 

*  To  give  out  the  line-  -the  preposterous  practice  of  reading  out  each  line 
of  the  psalm  or  hymn  before  singing  it  once  prevailed  in  Scotland. 


"  How  beautiful  is  Night:'  525 

and  really,  after  a',  naething  can  be  mair  beautifu' — there's 
nae  satisfyin  either  peasant  or  shepherd  by  ony  delineation 
o't,  though  drawn  in  lines  o'  licht,  and  shinin  equally  wi' 
genius  and  wi'  piety.  That's  it.  Noo,  this  is  Saturday 
nicht  at  Tibbie's — and,  though  we've  been  gey  funny,  there 
has  been  naething  desecratin  in  our  fun,  and  we'll  be  a* 
attendin  divine  service  the  morn — me  in  Yarrow,  and  you, 
Mr.  North,  and  Mr.  Tickler,  and  the  lave  o?  you,  in  Ettrick 
kirk. 

North.  And,  James,  we  can  nowhere  else  hear  Christianity 
preached  in  a  more  fervent  and  truthful  spirit. 

Shepherd.  Naewhere. 

(Enter  CAMPBELL  to  tell  the  Gigs  are  at  the  door.) 

North,   (sub  dio).    "  How  beautiful  is  night !  " 

Shepherd.  That's  Southey.  In  fowre  words,  the  spirit  o* 
the  skies. 

North.  Not  one  star. 

Shepherd.  Put  on  your  specks,  and  you'll  see  hunders. 
But  they  are  saft  and  dim — though  there  is  nae  mist — only 
a  kind  o'  holy  haze — and  their  lustre  is  abated  by  the  dews. 
I  thocht  it  had  been  frost ;  but  there's  nae  frost — or  they 
would  be  shinin  clearly  in  thousans — 

North.  Like  angel  eyes. 

Shepherd.  A  common  comparison — yet  no  the  waur  for  that 
— for  a'  humanity  feels,  that  on  a  bricht  starry  nicht,  heaven 
keeps  watch  and  ward  over  earth,  and  that  the  blue  lift  is 
instinct  wi'  love. 

North.  Where's  the  moon  ? 

Shepherd.  Looking  at  her  a'  the  time  wi'  a  gratefu'  face, 
that  smiles  in  her  licht !  as  if  you  were  gaun  to  sing  a  sang 
in  her  praise,  or  to  say  a  prayer. 

North.  No  halo. 

Shepherd.  The  white  Lily  o'  the  sky. 


526  Farewell  to    Tibbie. 

North.  No  rain  to-morrow,  Shepherd. 

Shepherd.  No  a  drap.  'Twull  be  a  real  Sabbath  day.  Ye 
see  the  starnies  noo — dinna  ye,  sir  ?  Some  seemin  no  fairer 
awa  nor  the  moon — and  some  far  ahint  and  ayont  her,  but 
still  in  the  same  region  wi'  the  planet — ithers  retiring  and 
retired  in  infinitude — and  sma'  as  they  seem,  a'  suns.  Awfu' 
but  sweet  to  think  on  the  great  works  o'  God  ! — But  the 
horses  'ill  be  catchin  cauld — and  a'  that  they  ken  is,  that  it's 
a  clear  nicht.  Lads,  tak  care  o'  the  dowgs,  that  they  dinna 
break  the  couples,  and  worry  sheep.  You'll  be  at  the  Castle 
afore  Mr.  North— for  it's  no  aboon  five  mile  by  the  cut  across 
the  hills — and  no  a  furlong  short  o'  fourteen  by  the  wheel 
road. — (They  ascend  their  Gigs.') — For  Heaven's  sake  !  sir,  tak 
tent  o'  the  Norways  !  Ilaco's  rearin,  and  Harold's  funkin — 
sic  deevils ! 

Tickler.  Whew !  Whew  !  Whew !  D.  I.  0.  North  !  Do 
— Da — Do — Tibi  Gratias  !  Farewell — thou  Bower  of  Peace ! 


XXIX. 

IN  WHICH  THE  SHEPHERD  APPEARS  FOR  THE  LAST 
TIME  AS  THE  TERRIBLE  TAWNEY  OF  TIMBUCTOO. 

Scene — Penetralia  of  the  Lodge.     Time — Ae  wee  short  hour 
ayont  the  Twal. 

NORTH  and  SHEPHERD. 

Shepherd.  It  wasna  safe  in  you,  sir,  to  gie  a'  your  domestics 
the  play  for  a  liaill  month  in  hairs t,  and  to  leeve  incog  a' 
alane  by  your  single  sel,  in  this  Sanctum,  like  the  last 
remaining  wasp  in  its  nest,  at  the  close  o'  the  hummin 
season  ; — for  what  if  you  had  been  taken  ill  wi'  some  sort  o' 
paralysis  in  your  limbs,  and  been  unable  to  ring  the  alarm- 
bell  for  succor  ?  Dinna  ye  see  that  you  micht  hae  expired 
for  want  o'  nourishment,  without  the  neiborhood  ha'in  had 
ony  suspicion  that  a  great  licht  was  extinguished,  and  that 
you  micht  hae  been  fund  sittin  in  your  chair,  no  a  corp  in 
claes,  but  a  skeleton  ?  You  should  really,  sir,  hae  mair 
consideration,  and  no  expose  your  freens  to  the  risk  o'  sic  a 
shock.  Wull  you  promise  ? 

North.  You  forget,  James,  that  the  milk-lassie  called  every 
morning,  and  eke  the  baker's  boy — except,  indeed,  during 
the  week  I  subsisted  on  ship-biscuit  and  fruitage. 

Shepherd.  You  auld  anchorite  ! 

North.  Such  occasional  abstraction,  my  dear  James,  I  feel 


528  A  Nocturnal  Invasion. 

so  be  essential  to  my  moral  and  intellectual  well-being.  1 
cannot  do  now  without  some  utter  solitude. 

Shepherd.  But  folk  'ill  begin  to  think  you  crazy — and  I'm 
no  sure  if  they  wad  be  far  wrang. 

North.  At  my  time  of  life,  James,  it  matters  not  much 
whether  I  be  crazy  or  not.  Indeed,  one  so  seldom  sees  a 
man  of  my  age  who  is  not  a  little  so.  that  I  should  not 
wish  to  be  singular — though,  I  confess  that  I  have  a  strong 
repugnance  to  the  idea  of  dotage.  Come  now,  be  frank  with 
your  old  friend,  and  tell  me,  if  the  oil  in  the  lamp  be  low, 
or  if  the  lamp  itself  but  want  trimming  ? 

Shepherd.  Neither.  But  the  lamp's  o'  a  curious  construc 
tion — a  self-feedin,  self-trimmin  lamp — and,  sure  eneuch, 
at  times  in  the  gloom  it  gies  but  a  glimmer — sae  that  a 
stranger  micht  imagine  that  the  licht  was  on  its  last  legs — 
but  would  sune  start  to  see  the  room  on  a  sudden  bricht  as 
day,  as  if  the  window-shutters  had  been  opened  by  an 
invisible  hand,  and  let  in  a'  the  heavens. 

North.  I  never  desire  to  be  brilliant. 

Shepherd.  Nor  does  the  Day. 

North.  Nor  the  Night. 

Shepherd.  There  lies  the  charm  o'  their  beauty,  sir,  just  as 
yours.  There's  no  ostentation  either  in  the  sun  or  in  the 
moon,  or  in  the  stars,  or  in  Christopher  North. 

North.  Ah !    you  quiz  ! 

[Knocking  at  the  front  door  and  ringing  at  the  front  door 
bell,  as  if  a  section  of  guardians  of  the  night  were  warn 
ing  the  family  of  f.re,  or  a  dozen  devils,  on  their  way 
back  to  Pandemonium,  were  wreaking  their  spite  on 
Christopher's  supposed  slumbers. 

Shepherd.  Whattt  ca'  ye  thattt  ? 

North  (musing).  I  should  not  wonder  were  that  Tickler. 

Shepherd.    Then  he  maun  be  in  full  tail  as  weel's  figg,  or 


Tickler  is  punished.  529 

else  a  Breearious.  (  Uproar  rather  increases).  They're  surely 
usin  sledge-hammers  !  or  are  they  but  ca'in  awa  wi'  their 
cuddie-heels  ?  *  Wt,  ocht  to  be  gratefu',  howsomever,  that 
they've  settled  the  bell.  The  wire-rope's  brak. 

North  (gravely).  I  shall  sue  Southside  for  damages. 

Shepherd.  Think  ye,  sir,  they'll  burst  the  door? 

North  (smiling  contemptuously).  Not  unless  they  have 
brought  with  them  Mons  Meg.f  But  there  is  no  occasion  for 
the  plural  number — 'tis  that  singular  sinner  Southside. 

Shepherd.  Your  servants  maun  be  the  Seven  Sleepers. 

North.  They  have  orders  never  to  be  disturbed  after  mid 
night.  (Enter  PETER,  in  his  shirt.)  PETER,  let  him  in — show 
him  ben — and  (whispers  PETER,  who  makes  his  exit  and  his 
entrance,  ushering  in  TICKLER  in  a  Dreadnought,  covered  with 
cranreuch.\  NORTH  and  the  SHEPHERD  are  seen  lying  on 
their  faces  on  the  hearth  rug). 

Peter.  Oh  !  dear !  oh  !  dear !  oh  !  dear !  what  is  this  !  what 
is  this  !  what  is  this  !  Hae  I  leeved  to  see  my  maister  and 
Mr.  Hogg  lyin  baith  dead. 

Tickler  (in great  agitation).  Heavens  !  what  has  happened ! 
This  is  indeed  dreadful. 

Peter.  Oh  !  sir !  oh  !  sir  !  it's  that  cursed  charcoal  that  he 
would  use  for  a'  I  could  do — the  effluvia  has  smothered  him 
at  last.  There's  the  pan — there's  the  pan  !  But  let's  raise 
them  up,  and  bear  them  into  the  back-green. 

(PETER  raises  the  body  of  NORTH  in  his   arms — TICKLER  that 
of  the  SHEPHERD.) 

Stiff  !    stiff !  stiff !  cauld  !  cauld !  cauld !  deid  !  deid  !  deid  ! 
Tickler  (wildly).  When  saw  you  them  last  ? 

*  The  iron  arming  on  the  heels  of  boots. 

t  A  piece  of  ordnance  famous  in  Scottish  history,  and  now  placed  on  tne 
ramparts  of  Edinburgh  Castle. 
$  Cranreuch— hoar-frost. 


530  Tickler  punishes  the  Shepherd. 

Peter.  Oh,  sir,  no  for  several  hours !  my  beloved  master 
sent  me  to  bed  at  twelve — and  now  'tis  two  half-past. 

Tickler  (dreadfully  agitated].  This  is  death. 

Shepherd  (seizing  him  suddenly  round  the  waist).  Then  try 
Doath  a  wrastle. 

North  (recuperated  by  the  faith ;/?«/ PETER)  .  Fair  play,  Hogg  ! 
You've  hold  of  the  waistband  of  his  breeches.  'Tis  a  dog-fall. 

[The    SHEPHERD  and  TICKLER  contend  fiercely   on  the   rug. 

Tickler  (uppermost).  You  deserve  to  be  throttled,  you 
swineherd,  for  having  well-nigh  broke  my  heart. 

Shepherd.  Pu'  him  aff,  North — pu'  him  aff — or  he'll  thrap- 
ple  me  !  Whr — whr — rrrr — whrrrr — 

[SOUTHSIDE  is   chokod  off  the    SHEPHERD,    and   takes   his 
seat  on  the   sofa   with    tolerable   composure.     Exit   PETER. 

Tickler.  Bad  taste — bad  taste.  Of  all  subjects  for  a  prac 
tical  joke,  the  worst  is  death. 

Shepherd.  A  gran'  judge  o'  taste  !  Ca'  you't  glide  taste  to 
break  folk's  bell-ropes,  and  kick  at  folk's  front  doors,  when 
a'  the  city's  in  sleep  ? 

Tickler.  I  confess  the  propriety  of  my  behavior  was  prob 
lematical. 

Shepherd.  Problematical.  You  wad  hae  been  cheap  o't, 
if  Mr.  North  out  o'  the  wundow  had  shot  you  deid  on  the  spat. 

North  (leaning  kindly  over  TICKLER,  as  SOUTHSIDE  is  sitting 
on  the  sofa,  and  insinuating  his  dexter  hand  into  the  left  coat- 
pocket  of  TIMOTHY'S  Dreadnought).  Ha!  ha!  Look  here,  Mr. 
Hogg  !  (Exhibits  a  bell-handle  and  brass  knocker.)  Street 
robbery  ? 

Shepherd.  iTamesucken  !  * 

North.  An  accomplished  Cracksman  I 

Tickler.  I  plead  guilty. 


*  A  Scottish  law  term,  expressing  assault  and  battery  «ommitted  on   a 
person  in  his  own  house. 


Tlie   Transmigration  of  Souls.  581 

Shepherd.  Plead  guilty !  What  brazen  assurance  !  Caught 
wi'  the  corpus  delicti  in  the  pouch  o'  your  wrap-rascal.  Bad 
taste — bad  taste.  But  sin'  you  repent,  you're  forgien.  Whare 
hae  you  been,  and  whence  at  this  untimeous  hour  hae  you 
come?  Tak  a  sup  o'  that.  (Handing  him  the  jug.) 

Tickler.  From  Duddingston  Loch.  I  detest  skating  in  a 
crowd — so  have  been  figuring  away  by  moonlight  to  the 
Crags. 

Shepherd.  Are  you  sure  you  are  quite  sober  ? 

Tickler.  Quite  at  present.  That's  jewel  of  a  jug,  James. 
But  what  were  you  talking  about  ? 

Shepherd.  Never  fash  your  thoom — but  sit  douii  at  the 
side-table  yonner. 

Tickler.   Ha  !     The  ROUND  !      (Sits  retired.) 

Shepherd.  I  was  sayin,  Mr.  Tickler,  that  I  canna  get  rid  o' 
a  belief  in  the  mettaseekozies  or  transmigration  of  sowls.  It 
aften  comes  upon  me  as  I'm  sittin  by  mysel  on  a  knowe  in 
the  Forest ;  and  a'  the  scenery,  stedfast  as  it  seems  to  be 
before  my  senses  as  the  place  o'  my  birth,  and  accordin  to 
the  popular  faith  where  I  hae  passed  a'  my  days,  is  then 
strangely  felt  to  loss  its  intimate  or  veetal  connection  wi' 
my  speerituality,  and  to  be  but  ae  dream-spat  amang  mony 
dream-spats  which  maun  be  a'  taken  thegither  in  a  bewilder- 
in  series,  to  mak  up  the  yet  uncompleted  mystery  o'  my  bein' 
or  life. 

North.  Pythagoras  ! 

Shepherd.  Mind  that  I'm  no  wullin  to  tak  my  Bible-oath 
for  the  truth  o'  what  I'm  1100  gaun  to  tell  you — for  what's 
real  and  what's  visionary — and  whether  there  be  indeed  three 
warlds — ane  o'  the  ee,  ane  o'  the  memory,  and  ane  o'  the 
imagination^ — it's  no  for  me  dogmatically  to  decide  ;  but  this 
I  wull  say,  that  if  there  are  three,  at  sic  times  they're  sae 
circumvolved  and  confused  wi'  ane  anither,  as  to  hae  the 


532  The  Shepherd's  Experiences 

appearance  and  inspire  the  feelin  o'  their  bein'  but  ae  warld 
—or  I  should  rather  say,  but  ae  life.  The  same  sort  o' 
consciousness,  sirs,  o'  my  ha'in  experimentally  belanged  alike 
to  them  a'  comes  ower  me  like  a  threefauld  shadow,  and  in 
that  shadow  my  sowl  sits  wi'  its  heart  beatin,  frichtened  to 
think  o'  a'  it  has  come  through,  sin'  the  first  far-awa  glimmer 
o'  nascent  thocht  connectin  my  particular  individuality  wi' 
the  universal  creation.  Am  I  makin  mysel  understood  ? 

Tickler.  Pellucid  as  an  icicle  that  seems  warm  in  the  sun 
shine. 

Shepherd.  Yet  you  dinna  see  my  drift — and  I'm  at  a  loss 
for  words. 

Tickler.  You  might  as  well  say  you  are  at  a  loss  for 
oysters,  with  five  hundred  on  that  board. 

Shepherd.  I  think  on  a  cave — far  ben,  mirk  always  as  a 
midnicht  wood — except  that  twa  lichts  are  burnin  there 
brichter  than  ony  stars — fierce  leevin  lichts — yet  in  their 
fierceness  fu'  o'  love,  and  therefore  fu'  o'  beauty — the  een  o' 
my  mother,  as  she  gently  growls  ower  me  wi'  a'  pur  that 
inspires  me  wi'  a  passion  for  milk  and  bluid. 

Tickler.   Your  mother  !     The  man's  mad. 

Shepherd.  A  lioness,  and  I  her  cub. 

North.  Hush,  hush,  Tickler. 

Shepherd.  I  sook  her  dugs,  and  sookin  I  grow  sae  cruel 
that  I  could  bite.  Between  pain  and  pleasure  she  gies  me  a 
cuff  wi'  her  paw,  and  I  gang  heid-ower-heels  like  a  bit  play- 
fu'  kitten.  And  what  else  am  I  but  a  bit  playfu'  kitten  ? 
For  we're  o'  the  Cat  kind — we  Lions — and  bein'  o'  the  royal 
race  o'  Africa,  but  ae  whalp  at  a  birth.  She  taks  me  me  win 
up  in  her  mouth,  and  lets  me  drap  amang  leaves  in  the  outer 
air — lyin  doun  aside  me  and  enticin  me  to  play  wi'  the  tuft  o' 
her  tail,  that  I  suppose,  in  my  simplicity,  to  be  itsel  a  separate 
hairy  cretur  alive  as  well  as  me,  and  gettin  iun,  as  wi'  loups 


As  a  Lions  Cub  533 

and  springs  we  pursue  ane  anither,  and  then  for  a  minute  pre 
tend  to  be  sleepin.  And  wha's  he  yon  ?  Wha  but  my  Fai  ther  ? 
I  ken  him  instinctively  by  the  mane  on  his  shouthers,  and  his 
bare  tawny  hurdies  ;  but  my  mither  wull  no  let  him  come  ony 
nearer,  for  he  yawns  as  if  he  were  hungry,  and  she  kens  he 
would  think  naething  o'  devoorin  his  ain  offspring.  Oh !  the 
first  time  I  heard  him  crunch  !  It  was  an  antelope — in  his 
fangs  like  a  mouse  ;  but  that  is  an  after  similitude — for  then 
I  had  never  seen  a  mouse — nor  do  I  think  I  ever  did  a'  the 
time  I  was  in  the  great  desert. 

North  (removing  to  some  distance) .  Tickler,  he  looks  alarm 
ingly  leonine. 

Shepherd.  I  had  then  nae  ee  for  the  picturesque  ;  but  out 
o'  thae  materials  then  sae  familiar  to  my  senses,  I  hae 
moiiy  a  time  since  constructed  the  landscape  in  which  my 
youth  sported — and  oh  !  that  I  could  but  dash  it  aff  on 


canvas 


North.  Salvator  Rosa,  the  greater  Poussin,  and  he  of  Dud- 
dingston,*  would  then  have  to  "  hide  their  diminished 
heads." 

Shepherd.  A  cave-mouth,  half-high  as  that  o'  Staffa  ;  but 
no  fantastic  in  its  structure  like  thae  hexagonals — a'  ae  sullen 
rock  !  Yet  was  the  savage  den  maist  sweet — for  frae  the 
arch  hung  doun  midway  a  mony-colored  drapery,  leaf-and- 
flower-woven  by  nature,  who  delights  to  beautify  the  wilder 
ness,  renewed  as  soon  as  faded,  or  else  perennial,  in  spite  o' 
a'  thae  suns,  and  a'  thae  storms  !  Frae  our  roof  strecht  up 
rose  the  trees,  wi'  crowns  that  touched  the  skies.  There  hung 
the  umbrage  like  clouds — and  to  us  below  how  pleasant  was 
the  shade  !  From  the  cave-mouth  a  green  lawn  descended  to 
a  pool,  where  the  pelican  used  to  come  to  drink — and  mony 
a  time  hae  I  watched  crouchin  ahint  the  water-lilies,  that  I 

*  The  Rev.  Mr.  Thomson. 


534  Among  the  Palm-trees. 

micht  spring  upon  her  when  she  had  filled  her  bag  ;  but  if  I  was 
cunnin  she  was  wary,  and  aye  fand  her  way  back  unscathed 
by  me  to  her  nest.  A'  roun'  was  sand  ;  for  you  see,  sirs,  it  was 
an  oasis — and  I  suspeck  they  were  palm-trees.  I  can  liken  a 
leaf,  as  it  cam  wavering  doun,  to  naething  I  hae  seen  sin'  syne 
but  a  parachute.  I  used  to  play  with  them  till  they  withered, 
and  then  to  row  mysel  in  them,  like  a  wean  hidin  itsel  for 
fun  in  the  claes,  to  mak  its  mother  true  *  it  wasna  there — till 
a'  at  ance  I  loupt  out  on  my  mither  the  Lioness,  and  in  a 
mock-fecht  we  twa  gaed  gurlin  doun  the  brae — me  generally 
uppermost — for  ye  can  hae  nae  idea  hoo  tender  are  the  mais  t 
terrible  o'  animals  to  their  young — and  what  delicht  the  auld 
she  ane  has  in  pretendin  to  be  vanquished  in  evendoun 
worryin  by  a  bit  cub  that  would  be  nae  rnair  than  a  match  for 
Rover  there,  or  even  Fang.  Na — ye  neediia  lift  your  heids 
and  cock  your  lugs,  my  glide  dowgies,  for  I'm  speakin  o'  yon 
and  no  to  you,  and  likenin  your  force  to  mine  when  I  was  a 
Lion's  whalp. 

Rover  and  Fang  (leaping  up  and  barking  at  the  Shepherd}. 
Wow — bow,  wow — bow,  wow,  wow. 

North.  They  certainly  think,  Tickler,  that  he  must  l:e 
either  Wallace  or  Nero. 

Shepherd.  Sae  passed  my  days — and  a  happier  young  hob 
bledehoy  of  a  Lion  never  footed  it  on  velvet  pads  alang  the 
Libyan  sands.  Only  sometimes  for  days — na,  weeks — I  was 
maist  desperate  hungry — for  the  antelopes  and  siclike  creturs 
began  to  get  unco  scarce — pairtly  frae  being  killed  out,  and 
pairtly  frae  being  feared  awa — and  I've  kent  us  obleeged  to 
dine,  and  be  thankful,  on  jackal. 

Tickler.   Hung  up  in  hams  from  the  roof  of  the  cave. 

Shepherd.  But  that  wasna  the  warst  o't — for  spring  cam 
—as  I  felt  rather  than  saw  ;  and  day  or  nicht — sleepi'i  or 

*  True— trow,  believe. 


Spring  in  the  Desert.  535 

waukin — I  could  get  nae  rest :  I  was  verra  feverish  and 
verra  fierce,  and  keepit  provvlin  and  growlin  about — 

Tickler.   Like  a  lion  in  love — • 

Shepherd.  I  couldna  distinctly  tell  why — and  sae  did  my 
mither,  vvha  lookit  as  if  in  glide  earnest  she  wad  tear  me  in 
pieces. 

Tickler.  Whattt  ? 

Shepherd.  She  would  glare  on  me  wi'  her  green  een,  as  if  she 
wanted  to  set  fire  to  my  hide,  as  you  may  hae  seen  a  laddie 
in  a  wundow  wi'  a  glass  settin  fire  to  a  man's  hat  on  the 
street,  by  the  power  o'  the  focns  ;  and  then  she  would  wallow 
on  the  sand,  as  if  to  rub  aff  ticks  that  tormented  her  ;  and 
then  wi'  a  shak,  garriri  the  piles  shower  frae  her,  would 
gallop  doun  to  the  pool  as  if  about  to  droon  hersel — and 
though  no  in  general  fond  o'  the  water,  plowter  in't  like  the 
verra  pelican. 

Tickler. — 

"  Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 
Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

Shepherd.  The  great  desert  grew  a'  ae  roar !  and  thirty 
feet  every  span^  cam  loupin  wi'  his  enormous  mane,  the 
Lion  my  father,  wi'  his  tail,  tuft  and  a',  no  perpendicular  like 
a  bull's,  but  extended  horizontally  ahiut  him,  as  stiff's  iron, 
and  a'  bristlin — and  fastened  in  his  fangs  in  the  back  o'  the 
Lioness  my  mother's  neck,  wha  forthwith  began  cater  waul  in 
waur  than  a  hunder  roof-fu's  o'  cats,  till  I  had  amaist  swarfed 
through  fear,  and  forgotten  that  I  was  ane  o'  their  am  whalps. 

Tickler.— 

"  To  slipw  how  much  thou  wast  degenerate." 

Shepherd.  Sae  I  thocht  it  high  time  to  leave  them  to  devoor 
ane  anither,  and  I  slunk  aff,  wi'  my  tail  atween  my  legs,  intil 
the  wilderness,  resolved  to  return  to  my  native  oasis  never 


536  The  Virgin  of  the  Wild. 


mair.  I  iv^ckit  back  frae  the  tap  o'  the  sand-hill,  and  saw 
what  micht  hae  been,  or  not  been,  the  croons  o'  the  palm- 
trees  —  and  then  glided  on  till  I  cam  to  anither  "  palm-grove 
islanded  amid  the  waste  "  —  as  Soothey  finely  says  —  where 
instinct  urged  me  to  seek  a  lair  ;  and  I  found  ane  —  no  sae 
superb,  indeed,  as  my  native  den  —  no  sae  magnificent  —  but 
in  itsel  bonnier  and  brichter  and  mair  blissfu'  far  :  safter,  far 
and  wide  a'  round  it,  was  the  sand  to  the  soles  and  paums  o' 
my  paws  —  for  an  event  befell  me  there  that  in  a  day  elevated 
me  into  Lionhood,  an  crooned  me'  wi'  the  imperial  diadem  of 
the  Desert. 

Tickler.  As  how  ? 

North.  James  ! 

Shepherd.  In  the  centre  o'  the  grove  was  a  well,  not  dug 
by  hands  —  though  caravans  had  passed  that  way  —  but  formed 
naturally  in  the  thin-grassed  sand  by  a  spring  that  in  summei 
drought  cared  not  for  the  sun  —  and  round  about  that  well 
were  some  beautifu'  bushes,  that  bore  flowers  amaist  as  big's 
roses,  but  liker  lilies. 

Tickler.  Most  flowery  of  the  feline  ! 

Shepherd.  But,  O  heavens  !  ten  thousand  million  times  mair 
beautifu'  than  the  gorgeous  bushes  'neath  which  she  lay  asleep  ! 
A  cretur  o'  my  ain  kind  !  couchant  !  wi'  her  sweet  nose  atween 
her  forepaws  !  The  elegant  line  o'  her  yellow  back,  frae 
shouther  to  rump,  broken  here  and  there  by  a  blossom-laden 
spray  that  depended  lovingly  to  touch  her  slender  side  !  Her 
tail  gracefully  gathered  up  amang  the  delicate  down  on  which 
she  reposed  !  Little  of  it  visible  but  the  tender  tuft  !  Eyes 
and  lips  shut  !  There  slept  the  Virgin  of  the  Wild  !  still  as 
the  well,  and  as  pure,  in  which  her  eemage  was  enshrined  ! 
I  trummled  like  a  kid  —  I  heard  a  knockin,  but  it  didna  wauken 
her  —  and  creepin  stealthily  on  my  gruff,*  I  laid  mysel,  without 

*  Gruff—  belly. 


She  is  taken  Captive.  537 

growlin,  side  by  side,  a'  ray  length  alang  hers — and  as  our  fur 
touched,  the  touch  garred  me  at  first  a'  grue,  and  then  glow- 
as  if  prickly  thorns  had  pleasurably  pierced  my  verra  heart. 
Saftly,  saftly  pat  I  ae  paw  on  the  back  o'  her  head,  and  anither 
aneath  her  chin — and  then  laid  my  cheek  to  hers,  and  gied  the 
ear  neist  me  a  wee  bit  bite  ! —  when  up  she  sprang  higher  in 
the  air,  Mr.  Tickler,  than  the  feather  on  your  cap  when  you 
was  in  the  Volunteers  ;  and  on  recoverin  her  feet  after  the  fa', 
without  stayin  to  look  around  her,  spang  by  spang  tapped  the 
shrubs,  and  afore  I  had  presence  o'  mind  to  pursue  her,  round 
a  sand-hill  was  out  o'  sicht ! 

North.  Ay,  James — joy  often  drops  out  between  the  cup 
and  the  lip — or,  like  riches,  takes  wings  to  itself  and  flies 
away.  And  was  she  lost  to  thee  for  ever? 

Shepherd.  I  lashed  mysel  wi'  my  tail — I  trode  and  tore  up 
the  shrubs  wi'  my  hind  paws — I  turned  up  my  jaws  to 
heaven,  and  yowled  in  wrathfu'  despair — and  then  pat  my 
mouth  to  the  dust,  and  roared  till  the  well  began  to  bubble  : 
then  I  lapped  water,  and  grew  thirstier  the  langer  I  lapped — • 
and  then  searched  wi'  a'  my  seven  senses  the  bed  whare  her 
beautifu'  bulk  had  lain — warmer  and  safter  and  sweeter  than 
the  ither  herbage — and  in  rage  tried  to  bite  a  bit  out  o'  my 
ain  shouther,  when  the  pain  sent  me  bounding  aff  in  pursuit 
o'  my  lovely  lioness  ;  and  lo  !  there  she  was  stealin  alang  by 
the  brink  o'  anither  nest  o'  bushes,  far  aff  on  the  plain,  pausin 
to  look  back — sae  I  thocht — ere  she  disappeared  in  her 
hiding-place.  Round  and  round  the  brake  I  careered,  in 
narrowing  circles,  that  my  Delicht  should  not  escape  my 
desire,  and  at  last  burst  crashin  in  upon  her  wi'  ae  spang, 
and  seized  her  by  the  nape  o'  the  neck,  as  my  father  had 
seized  my  mother,  had  pinned  her  doun  to  the  dust.  But  I 
was  mercifu'  as  I  was  strang  ;  and  being  assured  by  her,  that 
if  I  would  but  be  less  rampawgeous,  that  she  would  at  least  gie 


538  The  Lions  Honeymoon. 

me  a  hearin,  I  released  her  neck  frae  my  fangs,  but  keepit  a 
firm  paw  on  her,  till  I  had  her  promise  that  she  would  agree 
to  ony  proposal  in  reason,  provided  my  designs  were  honor 
able — and  honorable  they  were  as  ever  were  breathed  by 
bosom  leonine  in  the  solitary  wilderness. 
North.— 

"  I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 

And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride; 
And  thus  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  bride." 

Shepherd.  We  were  perfectly  happy,  sir.  Afore  the  hinny- 
moon  had  filled  her  horns,  mony  an  antelope,  and  not  a  few 
monkeys,  had  we  twa  thegither  devoored  !  Oh,  sirs  !  but  she 
was  fleet !  and  sly  as  swift !  She  would  lie  couchin  in  a  bush 
till  she  was  surrounded  wi'  grazing  edibles  suspeckin  nae 
harm,  and  ever  and  anon  ceasing  to  crap  the  twigs,  and 
playin  wi'  ane  anither,  like  lambs  in  the  forest,  where  it  is 
now  my  lot  as  a  human  cretur  to  leeve  !  Then  up  in  the  air 
and  amang  them  wi'  a  roar,  smitin  them  deid  in  dizzens  wi' 
ae  touch  o'  her  paw,  though  it  was  safter  than  velvet — and 
singlin  out  the  leader  by  his  horns,  that  purrin  she  micht 
leisurely  sook  his  bluid ;  nor  at  sic  times  would  it  hae  been 
safe  even  for  me,  her  lion  and  her  lord,  to  hae  interfered  wi' 
her  repast :  for  in  the  desert  hunger  and  thirst  are  as  fierce 
as  love.  As  for  me,  in  this  respect,  I  was  mair  generous  ; 
and  mony  is  the  time  and  aft  that  I  hae  gien  her  the  cid-bits 
o'  fat  frae^the  flank  o'  a  deer  o'  my  ain  killin  when  she  had 
missed  her  ain  by  ower-springin't — for  I  never  kent  her 
spang  fa'  short — without  her  so  much  as  thankin  me, — for 
she  was  ower  prood  ever  to  seem  gratefu'  for  ony  favor — 
and  carried  hersel,  like  a  Beauty  as  she  was,  and  a  spoiled 
Bride.  I  was  sometimes  sair  tempted  to  throttle  her ;  but 
then,  to  be  sure,  a  playfu'  pat  frae  her  paw  could  smooth  my 


Which  Variety  of  Lion  ?  539 

bristles  at  ony  time,  or  mak  me  lift  up  my  mane  for  her  de- 
liclit,  that  she  micht  lie  doun  bashfully  aneath  its  shadow,  or 
as  if  shelteriu  there  frae  some  object  o'  her  fear,  crouch  pantiii 
amaiig  that  envelopment  o'  hairy  clouds. 

Tickler.  Whew! 

North.  In  that  excellent  work.  The  Naturalist's  Library, edit 
ed  by  my  learned  friend  Sir  William  Jardine,  it  is  observed, 
if  I  recollect  rightly,  that  Temminck,  in  his  Monograph, 
places  the  African  lion  in  two  varieties — that  of  Barbary  and 
that  of  Senegal — without  referring  to  those  of  the  southern 
parts  of  the  continent.  In  the  southern  parts  there  are  two 
kinds  analogous,  it  would  seem,  to  the  northern  varieties — 
the  yellow  and  the  brown,  or  according  to  the  Dutch  colon 
ists,  the  blue  and  the  black.  Of  the  Barbary  lion,  the  hair 
is  of  a  deep  yellowish  brown,  the  mane  arid  hair  upon  the 
breast  and  insides  of  the  fore-legs  being  ample,  thick,  and 
shaggy ;  of  the  Senegal  lion,  the  color  of  the  body  is  of  a 
much  paler  tint,  the  mane  is  much  less,  does  not  extend  so 
far  upon  the  shoulders,  and  is  almost  entirely  wanting  upon 
the  breast  and  insides  of  the  legs.  Mr.  Burchel  encountered 
a  third  variety  of  the  African  lion,  whose  marie  is  nearly 
quite  black,  and  him  the  Hottentots  declare  to  be  the  most 
fierce  and  daring  of  all.  Now,  my  dear  James,  pardon  me 
for  asking  whether  you  were  the  Senegal  or  Barbary  Lion, 
or  one  of  the  southern  varieties  analogous  to  them,  or  the 
third  variety,  with  the  mane  nearly  black,  that  encountered 
Mr.  Burchel  ? 

Tickler.  He  must  have  been  a  fourth  variety,  and  probably 
the  sole  specimen  thereof ;  for  all  naturalists  agree  that  the 
young  males  have  neither  mane  nor  tail-tuft,  and  exhibit  no 
incipient  symptoms  of  such  appendages  till  about  their  third 
year. 

Shepherd.  Throughout  the  hale  series  o'  my  transmigration 


540          "  The  Terrible  Tawney  of  TMuetoo." 

o'  sowl  I  hae  aye  been  equally  in  growth  and  genius  extra- 
ordinal  precocious,  Timothy  ;  and  besides,  I  dinna  clearly  see 
hoo  either  Buffoon,  or  Civviar,  or  Tinnock,  or  Sir  William 
Jarrdinri,  or  James  Wulson,  or  even  Wommle  himsel,  familiar 
as  they  may  be  wi'  Lions  in  plates  or  cages,  should  ken  better 
about  their  manes  and  the  tuft  o'  their  tails,  than  me  wha 
was  ance  a  Lion  in  propria  persona,  and  hae  thochts  o'  writing 
my  ain  Leonine  Owtobiography  wi'  Cuts.  But  as  for  my 
color,  I  was  neither  a  blue,  nor  a  black,  nor  a  white,  nor  a 
red  Lion — though  you,  Tickler,  may  hae  seen  siclike  on  the 
.  signs  o'  inns — but  I  was  the  TERRIBLE  TAWNEY  o'  TIM- 
BUCTOO ! ! ! 

Tickler.  What !  did  you  live  in  the  capital  ? 

Shepherd.  Na — in  my  kintra  seat  a'  the  year  roun'.  But 
there  was  mair  than  a  sugh  o'  me  in  the  metropolis — mony 
a  story  was  tauld  o'  me  by  Moor  and  Mandingo — and  by 
whisper  o'  my  name  they  stilled  their  cryin  weans,  and 
frichtened  them  to  sleep.  What  kent  I,  when  a  lion,  o'  geo 
graphy  ?  Nae  map  o'  Africa  had  I  ever  seen  but  what  I 
scrawled  wi'  my  ain  claws  on  the  desert  dust.  As  for  the 
Niger,  I  cared  na  whether  it  flawed  to  meet  the  risin  or  the 
settin  sun — but  when  the  sun  entered  Leo,  I  used  instinc 
tively  to  soom  in  its  waters ;  and  I  remember,  as  if  it  had 
been  yesterday,  loupin  in  amang  a  bevy  o'  black  girlies 
bathin  in  a  shallow,  and  breakfastin  on  ane  o'  them,  wha  ate 
as  tender  as  a  pullet,  and  was  as  plump  as  a  paitrick.  It  was 
lang  afore  the  time  o'  Mungo  Park  ;  but  had  I  met  Mungo  I 
wouldna  hae  hurt  a  hair  o'  his  head — for  my  prophetic  sowl 
would  hae  been  conscious  o'  the  Forest,  and  however  hungry, 
never  would  1  hae  harmed  him  wha  had  leeved  on  the  Tweed. 

North.  Beautiful.  Pray,  James,  is  it  true  that  your  lion 
prefers  human  flesh  to  any  other — nay,  after  once  tasting  it, 
that  he  uniformly  becomes  an  anthropophagus  ? 


TJie  Tawney's  Favorite  Dish.  541 

Shepherd.  He  may  or  he  may  not  uniformly  become  an 
anthropophagus,  for  I  kenna  what  an  anthropophagus  is  ;  but 
as  to  preferring  human  flesh  to  ony  ither,  that  depends  on 
the  particular  kind  o'  human  flesh.  I  presume,  when  I  was 
a  lion,  that  I  had  the  ordinar  appetencies  o'  a  lion — that  is, 
that  I  was  rather  aboon  than  below  average  or  par — and  at 
a'  events,  that  there  was  naething  about  me  unleonine.  Noo, 
I  could  never  bring  my  stamack,  without  difficulty,  to  eat 
an  auld  woman :  as  for  an  auld  man,  that  was  out  o'  the 
question,  even  in  starvation.  On  the  whole,  I  preferred,  in 
the  long  run,  antelope  even  to  girl.  Girl  doubtless  was  a 
delicacy  ance  a  fortnight  or  thereabouts — but  girl  every  day 
would  hae  been — 

Tickler.    Toujours  perdrix. 

Shepherd.  Just  sae.  Anither  Lion,  a  freen  o'  mine,  though, 
thocht  otherwise,  and  used  to  lie  in  ambuscade  for  girl,  on 
which  he  fed  a'  through  the  year.  But  mark  the  consequence 
— why,  he  lost  his  senses,  and  died  ragin  mad  ! 

Tickler.  You  don't  say  so  ? 

Shepherd.  Instinctively  I  kent  better,  and  diversified  my 
denners  with  zebras  and  quaggas,  and  such  small  deer,  sae 
that  I  was  always  in  high  condition,  my  skin  was  aye  sleek, 
my  mane  meteorous  ;  and  as  for  my  tail,  wherever  I  went,  the 
tuft  bore  aff  the  belle. 

North.  Leo — are  you,  or  are  you  not  a  cowardly  animal  ? 

Shepherd.  After  I  had  reached  the  age  o'  puberty  my  cour 
age  never  happened  to  be  put  to  ony  verra  severe  trial,  for  I 
was  aye  faithfu'  to  my  mate — and  she  to  me — and  jealousy 
never  disturbed  our  den. 

Tickler.  Any  cubs  ? 

Shepherd.  But  I  could n a  hae  wanted  courage,  since  I  never 
felt  fear.  I  aye  took  the  sun  o'  the  teegger  ;  and  though  the 
rhinoceros  is  an  ugly  customer,  he  used  to  gie  me  the  wa' ; 


542  His  Fight  ivitli  the  Unicorn. 

at  sicht  o'  me  the  elephant  became  his  ain  trumpeter,  and 
sounded  a  retreat  in  amang  the  trees.  Ance,  and  ance  only, 
I  had  a  desperate  fecht  wi'  a  unicorn. 

North.   So  he  is  not  fabulous  ? 

Shepherd.  No  him,  indeed — he's  ane  o'  the  realest  o'  a» 
beasts. 

Tickler.  What  may  be  the  length  of  his  horn,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  O'  a  dagger. 

North.  Shape  ? 

Shepherd.  No  speerally  wreathed  like  a  ram's  horn — but 
strecht,  smooth,  and  polished,  o'  the  yellow  ivory — sharper 
than  a  swurd. 

Tickler.  Hoofs? 

Shepherd.  His  hoofs  are  no  cloven,  and  he's  no  unlike  a 
horse.  But  in  place  o'  nicherin  like  a  horse,  he  roars  like  a 
bull ;  and  then  he  leeves  on  flesh. 

Tickler.  I  thought  he  had  been  omnivorous. 

Shepherd.  Nae  cretur's  omnivorous  but  man. 

North.  Rare? 

Shepherd.  He  maun  be  very  rare,  for  I  never  saw  anither 
but  him  I  focht.  The  battle  was  in  a  wudd.  We're  natural 
enemies,  and  set  to  wark  the  moment  we  met  without  ony 
quarrel.  Wi'  the  first  pat  o'  my  paw  I  scored  him  frae 
shouther  to  flank,  till  the  bluid  spouted  in  jettees.  As  he  ran 
at  me  wi'  his  horn  I  joukit  ahint  a  tree,  and  he  transfixed  it 
in  the  pith — sheathin't  to  the  verra  hilt.  There  was  nae  use 
in  flingin  up  his  heels,  for  wi'  the  side-spang  I  was  on  his 
back,  and  fas  ten  in  my  hind  claws  in  his  flank,  and  my  fore- 
claws  in  his  shouthers,  I  began  at  my  leisure  devoorin  him  In 
the  neck.  She  sune  joined  me,  and  ate  a  hole  into  his  inside 
till  she  got  at  the  kidneys  ;  but  judgin  by  him,  nae  animal's 
mair  tenawcious  o'  life  than  the  unicorn — for  when  we  left 
him  the  remains  were  groanin.  Neist  mornin  we  went  to 


Carried  into  the  Capital.  543 

breakfast   on  him.  but  thae  gluttonous  creturs,  the   vulturs 
had  been  afore  us,  and  he  was  but  banes. 

North.  Are  you  not  embellishing,  James  ? 

Shepherd.  Sic  a  fack  needs  riae  embellishment.  But  I 
confess,  sirs,  I  was,  on  the  first  hearin  o't,  incredulous  o' 
Major  Laing's  ha'in  fand  the  skeleton  stickin  to  the  tree  ! 

North.  Why  incredulous  ? 

Shepherd.  For  wha  can  tell  at  what  era  I  was  a  lion  ?  But 
it  pruves  that  the  banes  o'  a  unicorn  are  durable  as  airn. 

North.  And  ebony  an  immortal  wood. 

Tickler.   Did  you  finish  your  career  in  a  trap  ? 

Shepherd.  Na.  I  died  in  open  day  in  the  centre  o'  the 
great  square  o'  Timbuctoo. 

Tickler.   Ha,  ha  !  baited  ? 

Shepherd.  Na.  I  was  lyin  ae  day  by  mysel — for  she  had 
disappeared  to  whalp  amang  the  shrubs— waitin  for  some 
wanderin  waif  comin  to  the  well — for  thirst  is  stronger  than 
fear  in  them  that  dwall  in  the  desert,  and  they  will  seek  for 
water  even  in  the  lion's  lair — when  I  saw  the  head  o'  an  un 
known  animal  high  up  amang  the  trees,  browzin  on  the 
sprays — and  then  its  lang  neck — and  then  its  shouthers — and 
then  its  forelegs ;  and  then  its  body  droopin  doun  into  a  tail 
like  a  buffalo's — an  animal  unlike  ony  ither  I  had  ever  seen 
afore — for  though  spotted  like  a  leopard,  it  was  in  shape 
liker  a  unicorn — but  then  its  een  were  black  and  saft,  like 
the  een  o'  an  antelope,  and  as  it  lickit  the  leaves,  I  kent  that 
tongue  had  never  lapped  bluid.  I  stretched  mysel  up  wi'  my 
usual  roar,  and  in  less  time  than  it  taks  to  tell't  was  on  the 
back  o'  the  Giraffe. 

Ambo.     Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  oh  ! 

Shepherd.  I  happened  no  to  be  verra  hungry  ;  and  my 
fangs — without  munchin — pierced  but  an  inch  or  twa  deep. 
Brayin  across  the  sand-hills  at  a  lang  trot  flew  the  camelo- 


544  He  dies  in  the  Great  Square. 

pard — nor  for  hours  slackened  she  her  pace,  till  she  plunged 
into  the  Black  river — 

Tickler.  The  Niger. 

Shepherd.  swam  across,  and  bore  me  through  many 

groves  into  a  wide  plain,  all  unlike  the  wilderness  round  the 
Oasis  we  had  left  at  morn. 

North.  What  to  that  was  Mazeppa's  ride  on  the  desert-born ! 

Shepherd.  The  het  bluid  grew  sweeter  and  sweeter  as  I 
drank — and  I  saw  naething  but  her  neck,  till  a'  at  ance 
staggerin  she  fell  doun — and  what  a  sicht!  Rocks,  as  I 
thocht  them — but  they  were  houses — encirclin  me  a'  round ; 
thousan's  o'  blackamoors,  wi'  shirts  and  spears  and  swurds 
and  fires,  and  drums,  hemmiu  the  Lion — and  arrows — like 
the  flyin  dragons  I  had  seen  in  the  desert,  but  no,  like  them, 
harmless — stingin  me  through  the  sides  intil  the  entrails, 
that  when  I  bat  them  brak  !  You  asked  me  if  I  was  a 
cooard  ?  Was't  like  a  cooard  to  drive,  in  that  condition,  the 
haill  city  like  sheep  ?  But  a'  at  ance,  without  my  ain  wull, 
my  spangin  was  changed  into  sprawlin  wi'  my  fore-feet.  I 
still  made  them  spin  ;  but  my  hind-legs  were  useless — my 
back  was  broken — and  what  I  was  lappin,  sirs,  was  a  pool  o' 
my  ain  bluid.  I  had  spewed  it  as  my  heart  burst ;  first  fire 
grew  my  een,  and  then  mist — and  the  last  thing  I  remember 
was  a  shout  and  a  roar.  And  thus,  in  the  centre  o'  the  great 
square  o'  Timbuctoo,  the  Lion  died ! 

North.  And  the  hide  of  him,  who  is  now  the  Ettrick  Shep 
herd,  has  for  generations  been  an  heirloom  in  the  palace  of 
the  Emperor  of  all  the  Saharas ! 

Shepherd,  Nae  less  strange  than  true.  Noo,  North,  let's 
hear  o'  ane  o'  your  transmigrations. 

North.  Another  night ;  for  really,  after  such  painting  and 

such  poetry .  .  .  Shall  we  have  some  beef  a-la-mode, 

James  ? 


The  Old  Man  Eloquent.  545 

Shepherd.  Eh  ? 

(Beef  a-la-mode.) 

Shepherd  (in  continuation).  What  is  Love  o'  Kintra  but  an 
amalgamated  multitude  o'  sympathies  in  brethren's  hearts  ! 

North.  Yes,  James,  that  is  our  country — not  where  we 
have  breathed  alone  ;  not  that  land  which  we  have  loved, 
because  it  has  shown  to  our  opening  eyes  the  brightness  of 
heaven,  and  the  gladness  of  earth  ;  but  the  land  for  which  we 
have  hoped  and  feared, — that  is  to  say,  for  which  our  bosom 
has  beat  with  the  consenting  hopes  and  fears  of  many  million 
hearts;  that  land,  of  which  we  have  loved  the  mighty  living 
and  the  mighty  dead ;  that  land,  the  Roman  and  the  Greek 
would  have  said,  where  the  boy  had  sung  in  the  pomp  that 
led  the  sacrifice  to  the  altars  of  the  ancient  deities  of  the 
soil. 

Shepherd.  And  therefore,  when  a  man  he  would  guard 
them  frae  piofanation,  and  had  he  a  thousan'  lives,  would 
pour  them  a'  out  for  sake  o'  what  some  micht  ca'  superstition, 
but  which  you  and  me,  and  Southside,  sittin  there  wi'  his 
great  grey  een,  would  fearna,  in  the  face  o'  heaven,  to  ca' 
religion. 

Tickler.   Hurra! 

Shepherd.  I  but  clench  my  nieves. 

North.  James,  the  Campus  Martius  and  the  Palaestra — 

Shepherd.   Sir? 

North.  where  the  youth  exercised  Heroic  Games,  were 

the  Schools  of  their  Virtue  ;  for  there  they  were  taking  part 
in  the  passions,  the  power,  the  life,  the  glory  that  flowed 
through  all  the  spirit  of  the  nation. 

Shepherd.  O'  them,  sir,  the  ggenas  at  St.  Ronan's  are,  but 
on  a  sma'  scale,  and  imperfect  eemage. 

North.  Old  warriors  and  gowned  statesmen,  that  frowned 
in  marble  or  in  brass,  in  public  places,  and  in  the  porches  of 


546  On  the  Fire  of  Patriotism. 

noble  houses,  tropbied  monuments,  and  towers  riven  with 
the  scars  of  ancient  battles — the  Temple  raised  where  Jove 
had  stayed  the  Flight — or  the  Victory  whose  expanded  wings 
still  seemed  to  hover  over  the  conquering  bands — what  were 
all  these  to  the  eyes  and  the  fancy  of  the  young  citizen,  but 
characters  speaking  to  him  of  the  great  secret  of  his  Hopes 
and  Desires — in  which  he  read  the  union  of  his  own  heart  to 
the  heart  of  the  Heroic  Nation  of  which  he  was  One  ? 

Shepherd.  My  blind's  tinglin  and  my  skin  creeps.  Dinna 
stap. 

North.  And  what,  James,  I  ask  you,  what  if  less  noble 
passions  must  hereafter  take  their  place  in  his  mind  ? — what 
if  he  must  learn  to  share  in  the  feuds  and  hates  of  his  house 
or  of  his  order  ?  Those  far  deeper  and  greater  reelings  had 
been  sunk  into  his  spirit  in  the  years  when  it  is  most  suscep 
tible,  unsullied,  and  pure,  and  afterwards  in  great  contests, 
in  peril  of  life  and  death,  in  those  moments  of  agitation  or 
profound  emotion  in  which  the  higher  soul  again  rises  up,  all 
those  high  and  solemn  affections  of  boyhood  and  youth  would 
return  upon  him,  and  coiisecrate  his  warlike  deeds  with  the 
noblest  name  of  virtue  thas  was  known  to  those  ancient  states. 

Shepherd.  What  was't  ?     Eh  ? 

North.   Patriotism. 

Shepherd.  Ou  ay.     Say  on,  sir. 

North.  Therefore  how  was  the  Oaken  Crown  prized  which 
was  given  to  him  who  had  saved  the  life  of  a  citizen  ! 

Shepherd.  And  amang  a  people  too,  sir,  whare  every 
man  was  will  in  at  a  word  to  die. 

North.  Perhaps,  James,  he  loved  not  the  man  whom  he 
had  preserved ;  but  he  had  remembered  in  the  battle  that  it 
was  a  son  of  his  country  that  had  fallen,  and  over  whom  he 
liad  spread  his  shield.  He  knew  that  the  breath  he  guarded 
was  part  of  his  country's  being. 


"  The  Citizen  of  the  World"  547 

Shepherd.  Mr.  Tickler,  saw  ye  ever  sic  een  ? 

North.  Look  at  the  simple  incitements  to  valor  m  the 
songs  of  that  poet  who  is  said  to  have  roused  the  Lacede 
monians,  disheartened  in  unsuccessful  war,  and  to  have 
animated  them  to  victory.  "  He  who  fights  well  among  the 
foremost,  if  he  fall  shall  be  sung  among  his  people ;  or  if  he 
live,  shall  be  in  reverence  in  their  council ;  and  old  men  shall 
give  place  to  him  ;  his  tomb  shall  be  in  honor,  and  the  children 
of  his  children." 

Shepherd.  Simple  incitement,  indeed,  sir,  but  as  you  said 
richtly,  shooblime. 

North.  Why,  James,  the  love  of  its  own  military  glory  in 
a  warlike  people  is,  indeed,  of  itself  an  imperfect  patriotism. 

Shepherd.  Sir  ?  Wull  ye  say  that  again,  for  I  dinna  just 
tak  it  up  ? 

North.  Believe  me,  my  dear  Shepherd,  that  in  every 
country  there  is  cause  for  patriotism,  or  the  want  of  such  a 
cause  argues  defects  in  the  character  and  condition  of  the 
country  of  the  grossest  kind.  It  shows  that  the  people  are 
vicious,  or  servile,  or  effeminate — 

Shepherd.  Which  only  a  confounded  leear  will  ever  say  o' 
Scotsmen. 

North.  The  want  of  this  feeling  is  always  a  great  vice  in 
the  individual  character  ;  for  it  will  hardly  ever  be  found  to 
arise  from  the  only  justifiable  or  half-justifiable  cause,  namely, 
when  a  very  high  mind,  in  impatient  disdain  of  the  baseness 
of  all  around  it,  seems  to  shake  off  its  communion  with  them. 
1  call  that  but  half -justifiable. 

Shepherd.  And  I,  sir,  with  your  leave,  ca't  a'thegither 
unjustifiable,  as  you  can  better  explain  than  the  simple 
Shepherd. 

North.  You  are  right,  James.  For  the  noblest  minds  do 
not  thus  break  themselves  loose  from  their  country ;  but 


548  Is  an  Ignoble  Animal. 

they  mourn  over  it,  and  commiserate  its  sad  estate,  and 
would  die  to  recover  it.  They  acknowledge  the  great  tie 
of  nature — of  that  house  they  are — and  its  shame  is  their 
own. 

Shepherd.  Oh,  sir !  but  you're  a  generous,  noble-hearted 
cretur  ! 

North.  In  all  cases,  then,  the  want  of  patriotism  is  sheer 
want  of  feeling ;  such  a  man  labors  under  an  incapacity  of 
sympathizing  with  his  kind  in  their  noblest  interests.  Try 
him,  and  you  shall  find  that  on  many  lower  and  unworthier 
occasions  he  feels  with  others — that  his  heart  is  not  simply 
too  noble  for  this  passion — but  that  it  is  capable  of  being 
animated  and  warmed  with  many  much  inferior  desires. 

Shepherd.  A  greedy  dowg  and  a  lewd  ane, — in  the  ae  case, 
snarlin  for  a  bane — and  in  the.ither,  growlin  for  the  flesh.  I 
scunner  at  sic  a  sinner. 

North.  Woe  to  the  citizen  of  the  world ! 

Shepherd.  Shame — shame — shame  ! 

North.  The  man  who  feels  himself  not  bound  to  his  coun 
try  can  have  no  gratitude. 

Shepherd.  Hoo  selfish  and  cauld-hearted  maun  hae  been 
his  very  childhood ! 

North.  I  confess  that,  except  in  cases  of  extreme  distress, 
I  have  never  been  able  to  sympathize  with — emigrants. 

Shepherd.  I  dinna  weel  ken,  sir,  what  to  say  to  that — but 
mayna  a  man  love,  and  yet  leave  his  country  ? 

North.  My  dear  James,  I  see  many  mournful  meanings 
in  the  dimness  of  your  eyes — so  shall  not  pursue  that  sub 
ject — but  you  will  at  least  allow  me  to  say,  that  there  is 
something  shocking  in  the  mind  of  the  man  who  can  bear, 
without  reluctance  or  regret,  to  be  severed  from  the  whole 
world  of  his  early  years — who  can  transfer  himself  from  the 
place  which  ?s  his  own  to  any  region  of  the  globe  where  he 


The  Shepherd's  Last  Speech,  549 

can  advance  his  fortune — who,  in  this  sense  of  the  word,  can 
say,  in  carrying  himself,  "  omnia  mea  mecum  porto." 

Shepherd.  That's  no  in  my  book  o'  Latin  or  Greek  quo 
tations. 

North.  Exiles  carry  with  them  from  their  mother  country 
all  its  dearest  names. 

Shepherd.  And  a  wee  bit  name — canna  it  carry  in  it  a 
wecht  o'  love  ? 

North.  Ay,  James,  the  fugitives  from  Troy  had  formed  a 
little  Ilium,  and  they  had,  too,  their  little  Xantlms. 

Tickler.  "  Et  avertem  Xanthi  cognomine  rivum." 

Shepherd.  You're  twa  classical  scholars,  and  wull  aye  be 
quotin  Greek.  But  for  my  part, — after  a'  those  eloquent 
diatribes  o'  yours  on  the  pawtriotism  o'  the  auncients,  I 
wudna  desire  to  stray  for  illustrations  ae  step  out  o'  the 
Forest. 

Tickler.  Aren't  ye  all  Whigs  ? 

Shepherd.  Some  o'  a'  sorts.  But  it's  an  epitome  o'  the 
pastoral  warld  at  large — and  the  great  majority  o'  shepherds 
are  Conservatives.  They're  a  thinkin  people,  sir,  as  ye  ken  , 
and  though  far  frae  bein'  unspeculative,  or  unwillin  to  adopt 
new  contrivances  as  sune's  they  hae  got  an  insight  intil  the 
principle  on  which  they  work,  yet  a  new-fangle  in  their 
een's  but  a  new-fangle ;  and  as  in  the  case  o'  its  bein' 
applied  to  a  draw-well,  they  wait  no  only  to  see  how  it 
pumps  up,  but  hae  patience  to  put  its  durability  to  the 
proof  o'  a  pretty  lang  experience,  sae  in  the  political  affairs 
o'  the  State — they're  no  to  be  taen  in  by  the  nostrums  o' 
every  reformer  that  has  a  plan  o'  a  new,  cheap  constitution 
to  shaw,  but  they  fasten  their  een  on't  as  dourly  as  on  a 
dambrodd;*  and  then  began  cross-questionin  the  chuil — 
quack  or  else  no — on  the  vawrious  bearings  o'  the  muin- 

*  Dambrodd— draft-board. 


550  On  "  the  Salvation  of  the  Kintra" 

springs,  wheels,  and  drags ;  and  as  sune's  they  perceive  a 
hitch,  they  cry,  Ha !  ha  !  ma  lad  !  I'm  thinkin  she'll  no  rin  up 
hill — and  if  ye  let  her  lowse  at  the  tap  o'  ane,  she'll  rattle  to 
the  deevil. 

North.  And  such  too,  my  dear  sir,  don't  you  think,  is  the 
way  of  thinking  among  the  great  body  of  the  agriculturists  ? 
Shepherd.  I  could  illustrate  it,  sir,  by  the  smearin  o'  sheep. 
Tickler.  And  eke  the  shearing. 

Shepherd.  Say  clippin.  The  Whigs  and  Radicals  assert 
toon  folks  are  superior  in  mind  to  kintra  folks.  They'll  be 
sayin  neist  that  they're  superior  to  them  likewise  in  body — 
and  speak  o'  the  rabble  o'  the  Forest  as  ither  people  speak  o' 
the  rabble  o'  the  Grassmarket.  But  the  rural  riff-raff  are  in 
sprinkling,  in  sma'  families,  and  only  seen  lousin  ane  anither 
on  spats  forming  an  angle  on  the  road-sides.  Findlay  o' 
Selkirk  has  weel-nigh  cleaned  the  coonty  o'  a'  sic — but  in 
great  toons,  and  especially  manufacturin  anes,  there  are  haill 
divisions  hotchin  wi'  urban  riff-raff,  and  it's  them  ye  hear  at 
hustins  routin  in  a  way  that  the  stots  and  stirks  o'  the  Forest 
would  be  ashamed  o'  theirsels  for  doin  in  a  bare  field  on  a 
wunterday,  when  something  had  hindered  the  hind  fra  carryin 
them  some  fodder  to  warm  their  wames  in  the  snaw.  The 
salvation  o'  the  kintra,  sir,  depends  on  the — 

Tickler.  This  will  never  do,  North — this  is  too  bad.  See, 
'tis  six ! 

North  (rising,  and  giving  his  guests  each  his  candle).  We 
shall  hear  you  another  time,  my  dear  Shepherd  —  but 
now — 

Shepherd.  The  salvation  o'  the  kintra,  sir,  depends  on. 
the — 

North  (touching  first  one  spring  and  then  another,  while  fly 
open  two  panels  in  the  oak  wainscoting).  You  know  your  rooms. 
The  alarm-bell  will  ring  at  twelve — and  at  one  lunch  will  be 


Is  left  unfinished.  551 

on  the  table  in  the  Topaz.     I  wish  you  both  the  nightmare. 
(  Touches  a  spring,  and  vanishes.) 

Shepherd.  Mr.  Tickler  !  I  say  the  salvation  o'  the  country — 
baith  gane ! — I'm  no  sleepy — but  I'll  rather  sleep  than  solilo- 
queese.  ( Vanishes.) 

Sic  TRANSEUNT  NOCTES  AMBROSIAN^:. 


THE   APPENDIX. 


7.  NOTICES  BY  PROFESSOR  FERRIER 
II.  GLOSSARY  OF  SCOTCH   WORDS. 


APPENDIX, 


L— NOTICES   OF  TIMOTHY  TICKLER  AND 
THE  ETTRICK  SHEPHERD, 

B  lr  PROFESSOR  FERRIER. 

AMBROSE'S  was  situated  in  the  vicinity  of  West  Register  Street, 
at  the  back  of  the  east  end  of  Princes  Street,  and  close  to  the 
Register  Office.  Here  stood  the  tavern  from  which  the  Nodes 
Ccenceque,  commemorated  in  these  volumes,  derived  their  name. 

A  cursed  spot,  'tis  sad,  in  days  of  yore  ; 

But  nothing  ails  it  now— the  place  is  merry  !  " 

But  a  too  literal  interpretation  is  not  to  be  given  to  the  scene 
of  these  festivities.  Ambrose's  Hotel  was  indeed  "  a  local  hab 
itation  and  a  name,"  and  many  were  the  meetings  which  Pro 
fessor  Wilson  and  his  friends  had  within  its  walls.  But  the 
true  Ambrose's  must  be  looked  for  only  in  the  realms  of  the  im 
agination — the  veritable  scene  of  the  "  Ambrosian  nights  "  ex 
isted  nowhere  but  in  their  Author's  brain,  and  their  flashing 
fire  was  struck  out  in  solitude  by  genius,  wholly  independent 
of  the  stimulus  of  companionship. 

The  same  remark  applies  to  the  principal  characters  who  take 
part  in  these  dialogues.  Although  founded  to  some  extent  on 
the  actual,  they  are  in  the  highest  degree  idealized.  Christo 
pher  North  was  Professor  Wilson  himself,  and  here,  therefore, 
the  real  and  the  ideal  may  be  viewed  as  coincident.  But  Tim 
othy  Tickler  is  a  personage  whose  lineaments  bear  a  resemblance 
to  those  of  their  original  only  in  a  few  fine  although  unmistak 


556  Appendix. 

able  outlines,  while  James  Hogg  in  the  flesh  was  but  a  faint  ad 
umbration  of  the  inspired  Shepherd  of  the  Noctes. 

Mr.  Robert  Sym  (the  prototype  of  Timothy  Tickler)  was  born 
in  1750,  and  died  in  1844  at  the  age  of  ninety-four,  having  re 
tained  to  the  last  the  full  possession  of  his  faculties,  and  en 
joyed  uninterrupted  good  health  to  within  a  very  few  years  of 
his  decease.  He  followed  the  profession  of  Writer  to  the  Sig 
net  from  1775  until  the  close  of  that  century,  when  he  retired 
from  business  on  a  competent  fortune.  He  was  uncle  to  Pro 
fessor  Wilson  by  the  mother's  side,  and  his  senior  by  some 
five-and-thirty  years.  He  thus  belonged  to  a  former  generation, 
and  had  passed  his  grand  climacteric  long  before  the  establish 
ment  of  "Blackwood's  Magazine,"  with  which  he  had  no  con 
nection  whatever  beyond  taking  an  interest  in  its  success.  And 
although  his  conviviality  flowed  down  upon  a  later  stock,  and 
was  never  more  heartily  called  forth  than  when  in  the  company 
of  his  nephew,  these  circumstances  must  of  themselves  have 
prevented  the  Author  of  the  "  Noctes  "  from  trenching  too  closely 
on  reality  in  his  effigation  of  Timothy  Tickler. 

Mr  Sym's  portrait  in  the  character  of  Timothy  Tickler  is 
sketched  more  than  once  in  the  course  of  the  "  Noctes  Ambrosi- 
anse."  But  the  following  description  of  him  by  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd  is  so  graphic,  and  for  the  most  part  so  true,  that  I 
cannot  resist  the  pleasure  of  transcribing  it  : — 

"  I  had  never  heard,"  says  Hogg  in  his  *  Reminiscences  of 
Former  Days,'*  "more  than  merely  his  [Mr  Sym's]  name,  and 
imagined  him  to  be  some  very  little  man  about  Leith.  Judge 
of  my  astonishment  when  I  was  admitted  by  a  triple-bolted  door 
into  a  grand  house  f  in  St.  George's  Square,  and  introduced  to  its 
lord,  an  uncommonly  fine-looking  elderly  gentleman,  about 
seven  feet  high,  and  as  straight  as  an  arrow  !  His  hair  was 
whitish,  his  complexion  had  the  freshness  and  ruddiness  of  yout'  i, 
his  looks  and  address  full  of  kindness  and  benevolence  ;  but 
whenever  he  stood  straight  up  (for  he  always  had  to  stoop  about 

*  Prefixed  to  '  Altrive  Tales,'  by  the  Ettrick  Shepherd.    London,  1832. 
t  This  is  a  slight  exaggeration.    Mr  Sym's  house,  though  sufficiently  com- 
modious,  was  a  bachelor  domicile  of  very  moderate  dimensions. 


Notices  by  Professor  Ferrier.  557 

half-way  when  speaking  to  a  common-sized  man  like  me),  then 
you  could  not  help  perceiving  a  little  of  the  haughty  air  of  the 
determined  and  independent  old  aristocrat. 

"  From  this  time  forwaid,  during  my  stay  in  Edinburgh, 
Mr.  Sym's  hospitable  mansion  was  the  great  evening  resort  of 
his  three  nephews*  and  me  ;  sometimes  there  were  a  few  friends 
beside,  of  whom  Lockhart  and  Samuel  Andersonf  were  mostly 
two,  but  we  four  for  certain  ;  and  there  are  no  jovial  evenings 
of  my  by-past  life  which  I  reflect  on  with  greater  delight  than 
those.  Tickler  is  completely  an  original  as  any  man  may  see 
who  has  attended  to  his  remarks  ;  for  there  is  no  sophistry  there, 
— they  are  every  one  his  own.  Nay,  I  don't  believe  that  North 
has,  would,  or  durst,  put  a  single  sentence  into  his  mouth  that 
had  not  proceeded  out  of  it.|  No,  no  ;  although  I  was  made  a 
scape-goat,  no  one,  and  far  less  a  nephew,  might  do  so  with 
Timothy  Tickler.  His  reading,  both  ancient  and  modern,  is 
boundless, §  his  taste  and  perception  acute  beyond  those  of  most 
other  men  ;  his  satire  keen  and  biting,  but  at  the  same  time 
his  good-humor  is  altogether  inexhaustible,  save  when  ignited 
by  coming  in  collision  with  Whig  or  Radical  principles.  Still, 
there  being  no  danger  of  that  with  me,  he  and  I  never  differed 
in  one  single  sentiment  in  our  lives,  excepting  as  to  the  com 
parative  merits  of  some  strathspey  reels. 

*  Professor  Wilson,  Mr.  Robert  Sym  Wilson,  Manager  of  the  Royal  Bank 
of  Scotland,  and  Mr.  James  Wilson,  the  eminent  naturalist. 

\  Samuel  Anderson  makes  his  appearance  at  page  440. 

$  This  observation  is  very  wide  of  the  mark,  Assuredly  Mr.  f~'ym  was  no 
consenting  party  to  the  slight  liberties  which  were  taken  with  him  in  the 
"Noctes,"  and  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  he  had  more  than  a  faint  suspicion 
of  his  resemblance  to  the  redoubted  Timothy.  What  Hogg  says  in  regard  to 
the  vigor  of  Mr.  Sym's  talents,  and  the  originality  and  pointeduess  of  hia 
remarks,  is  quite  true  ;  but  had  the  nephew  ventured  to  report  any  of  the 
conversations  of  the  uncle,  there  cannot  be  a  doubt  that  the  "  breach  of  priv 
ilege"  wouid  have  been  highly  resented  by  the  latter.  Butthe  Professor  had 
too  much  tact  for  that.  He  took  good  care  not  to  sail  too  near  tlie  wind  ;  and 
the  utmost  that  can  be  said  is,  that  the  language  and  sentiments  of  Mr.  Sym 
bore  some  general  resemblance,  and  supplied  a  sort  of  groundwork,  to  the 
conversational  characteristics  of  Mr.  Tickler. 

§  This  also  is  incorrect.  Mr.  Sym's  reading,  although  accurate  and  intelli 
gent  so  far  as  it  went,  was  by  no  means  unbounded.  It  was  limited  to  our  best 
British  classics  and  of  these  his  special  favorites  were  Hume  and  Swift. 


558  Appendix. 

"  But  the  pleasantest  part  of  our  fellowship  is  yet  to  describe. 
At  a  certain  period  of  the  night  our  entertainer  knew,  by  the 
longing  looks  which  I  cast  to  a  beloved  corner  of  the  dining-room, 
what  was  wanting.  Then,  with  "  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Hogg,  I 
was  forgetting,"  he  would  take  out  a  small  gold  key  that  hung  by 
a  chain  of  the  same  precious  metal  from  a  particular  button-hole, 
and  stalk  away  as  tall  as  the  life,  open  two  splendid  fiddle-cases 
and  produced  their  contents  ;  first  the  one  and  then  the  other, 
but  always  keeping  the  best  to  himself.  I'll  never  forget  with 
what  elated  dignity  he  stood  straight  up  in  the  middle  of  that 
floor  and  rosined  his  bow;  there  was  a  twist  of  the  lip  and  an  up 
ward  beam  of  the  eye  that  were  truly  sublime.  Then  down  we 
sat  side  by  side,  and  began — at  first  gently,  and  with  easy  mo 
tion,  like  skilful  grooms  keeping  ourselves  up  for  the  final  heat, 
which  was  slowly  but  surely  approaching.  At  the  end  of  every 
tune  we  took  a  glass,  and  still  our  enthusiastic  admiration  of 
the  Scottish  tunes  increased — our  energies  of  execution  redoub 
led,  till  ultimately  it  became  not  only  a  complete  and  well- 
contested  race,  but  a  trial  of  strength,  to  determine  which  should 
drown  the  other.  The  only  feelings  short  of  ecstasy  which  came 
across  us  in  these  enraptured  moments  were  caused  by  hearing 
the  laugh  and  the  joke  going  on  with  our  friends,  as  if  no  such 
thrilling  strains  had  been  flowing.  But  if  Sym's  eye  chanced 
at  all  to  fall  on  them,  it  instantly  retreated  upwards  again  in 
mild  indignation. 

To  his  honor  be  it  mentioned,  he  has  left  me  a  legacy  of  that 
inestimable  violin,  provided  that  I  outlive  him.*  But  not  for  a 
thousand  such  would  I  part  with  my  old  friend." 

To  this  description  I  may  be  just  permitted  to  add,  that  in  the 
more  serious  concerns  of  life  Mr.  Sym's  character  and  career  were 
exemplary.  To  the  highest  sense  of  honor,  and  the  most  scru 
pulous  integrity  in  his  professional  dealings,  he  united  the  man 
ners  of  a  courtier  of  the  ancient  regime,  and  a  kindliness  of  na 
ture  which  endeared  him  to  the  old  and  to  the  young,  with  the 
latter  of  whom,  in  particular,  he  was  always  an  especial  favorite. 

*  Hogg  did  not  outlive  him. 


Notices  by  Professor  Ferrier.  559 

But  the  animating  spirit  of  the  "  Noctes  Ambrosianae  "  is  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd  himself.  James  Hogg  was  born  in  1772,  in  a 
cottage  on  the  banks  of  the  Ettrick,  a  tributary  of  the  Tweed  ; 
and  died  at  Altrive,  near  St.  Mary's  Loch — a  lake  in  the  same 
district — in  1835.  His  early  years  were  spent  in  the  humblest 
pastoral  avocations,  and  he  scarcely  received  even  the  rudiments 
of  the  most  ordinary  education.  For  long  "  chill  penury  re 
pressed  his  noble  rage  ;  "  but  the  poetical  instinct  was  strong 
within  him,  and  the  flame  ultimately  broke  forth  under  the 
promptings  of  his  own  ambition,  and  the  kind  encouragement  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  After  a  few  hits  and  many  misses  in  various 
departments  of  literature,  he  succeeded  in  striking  the  right 
chord  in  the  u  Queen's  Wake,"  which  was  published  in  1813. 
This  work  stamped  Hogg  as,  after  Burns  (proximus  sed  longo  in- 
tervallo),  the  greatest  poet  that  had  ever  sprung  from  the  bosom 
of  the  common  people.  It  became  at  once,  and  deservedly,  pop 
ular;  and  by  this  poem,  together  with  some  admirable  songs, 
imbued  with  genuine  feeling  and  the  national  spirit  of  his  coun 
try,  he  has  a  good  chance  of  being  known  favorably  to  posterity. 
But  his  surest  passport  to  immortality  is  his  embalmment  in  the 
"  Noctes  Ambrosianse. " 

In  connection  with  this  brief  notice  of  James  Hogg,  I  may 
take  the  opportunity  of  clearing  up  a  point  of  literary  history 
which  has  been  enveloped  in  obscurity  until  now :  I  allude  to 
the  authorship  of  a  composition  which  is  frequently  referred  to 
in  the  "  Noctes  Ambrosianse,"  the  celebrated  ChaldeeMS.  This 
trenchant  satire  on  men  and  things  in  the  metropolis  of  Scot 
land  was  published  in  the  seventh  number  of  "  Blackwood's 
Magazine."  It  excited  the  most  indescribable  commotion  at  the 
time — so  much  noise,  indeed,  that  never  since  has  it  been  per 
mitted  to  make  any  noise  whatever,  this  promising  babe  having 
been  pitilessly  suppressed  almost  in  its  cradle,  in  consequence  of 
threatened  legal  proceedings.  A  set  of  the  Magazine  containing 
it  is  now  rarely  to  be  met  with.  The  authorship  of  this  compo 
sition  has  been  always  a  subject  of  doubt.  Hogg  used  to  claim 
the  credit  of  having  written  it.  I  have  recently  ascertained  that 
to  him  the  original  conception  of  the  Chaldee  MS.  is  due;  and 


560  Appendix. 

also  that  he  was  the  author  of  the  first  thirty-seven  verses  of 
Chap.  I.,  and  of  one  or  two  sentences  beside.  So  that,  out  of 
the  one  hundred  and  eighty  verses  of  which  the  whole  piece 
consists,  about  forty  are  to  be  attributed  to  the  Shepherd.  Hogg, 
indeed,  wrote  and  sent  to  Mr.  Blackwood  much  more  of  the 
Chaldee  MS.  than  the  forty  verses  aforesaid  ;  but  not  more  than 
these  were  inserted  in  the  Magazine  ;  the  rest  of  the  produc 
tion  being  the  workmanship  of  Wilson  and  Lockhart.  Such  is 
a  true  and  authentic  account  of  the  origin  and  authorship  of  the 
Chaldee  MS.  ...  To  return  to  the  Shepherd. 

There  was  a  homely  heartiness  of  manner  about  Hogg,  and  a 
Doric  simplicity  in  his  address,  which  were  exceedingly  prepos 
sessing.  He  sometimes  carried  a  little  too  far  the  privileges  of 
an  innocent  rusticity,  as  Mr.  Lockhart  has  not  failed  to  note  in 
his  Life  of  Scott  ;  but,  in  general,  his  slight  deviations  from 
etiquette  were  rather  amusing  than  otherwise.  When  we  con 
sider  the  disadvantages  with  which  he  had  to  contend,  it  must 
be  admitted  that  Hogg  was,  in  all  respects,  a  very  remarkable 
man.  In  his  social  hours,  a  natuetJ,  and  a  vanity  which  dis 
armed  displeasure  by  the  openness  and  good-humor  with  which 
it  was  avowed,  played  over  the  surface  of  a  nature  which  at 
bottom  was  sufficiently  shrewd  and  sagacious  ;  but  his  conver 
sational  powers  were  by  no  means  pre-eminent.  He  never,  in 
deed,  attempted  any  colloquial  display,  although  there  was 
sometimes  a  quaintness  in  his  remarks,  a  glimmering0  of  droll 
ery,  a  rural  freshness,  and  a  tinge  of  poetical  coloring,  which  re 
deemed  his  discourse  from  common  place,  and  supplied  to  the 
consummate  artist  who  took  him  in  hand  the  hints  out  of 
which  to  construct  a  character  at  once  original,  extraordinary, 
and  delightful — a  character  of  which  James  Hogg  undoubtedly 
furnished  the  germ,  but  which,  as  it  expanded  under  the  hands 
of  its  artificer,  acquired  a  breadth,  a  firmness,  and  a  power  to 
which  the  bard  of  Mount  Benger  had  certainly  no  preten 
sion.  .  .  . 

In  another  respect  the  dialect  of  the  Shepherd  is  peculiar  :  it 
is  thoroughly  Scottish,  and  eould  not  be  Anglicized  without 
losing  its  raciness  and  spoiling  entirely  the  dramatic  propriety 


Notices  by  Professor  Ferrier.  561 

of  his  character.  Let  it  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  it  is 
in  any  degree  provincial,  or  that  it  is  a  departure  from  English 
speech  in  the  sense  in  which  the  dialects  of  Cockneydom  and  of 
certain  English  counties  are  violations  of  the  language  of  Eng 
land.  Although  now'  nearly  obsolete,  it  ranks  as  a  sister-tongue 
to  that  of  England.  It  is  a  dialect  consecrated  by  the  genius  of 
Burns,  and  by  the  usage  of  Scott  ;  and  now  confirmed  as  classi 
cal  by  its  last,  and  in  some  respects  its  greatest,  master.  This 
dialect  was  Burns's  natural  tongue  ;  it  was  one  of  Sir  Walter's 
most  effective  instruments  ;  but  the  author  of  the  "  Noctes  Am- 
brosianse,  wields  it  with  a  copiousness,  flexibility,  and  splendor 
which  never  have  been,  and  probably  never  will  be  equalled. 
As  the  last  specimen,  then,  on  a  large  scale,  of  the  national 
language  of  Scotland  which  the  world  is  ever  likely  to  see,  I 
have  preserved  with  scrupulous  care  the  original  orthography  of 
these  compositions.  Glossarial  interpretations,  however,  have 
been  generally  subjoined  for  the  sake  of  those  readers  who  la 
bor  under  the  disadvantage  of  having  been  born  on  the  south 
side  of  the  Tweed. 


II— GL  OSSARY. 


A'— all 

A  bee — alone 

Abeigh — aloof 

Aboon — above 

Ackit — acted 

Acks — acts 

Acquent — acquainted 

Ae — one 

Afterhend — afterwards 

Ahint — behind 

Aiblins — perhaps 

Aik — oak 

Airn — iron 

Airt — direction,   point  of  the 

compass 
Aits — oats 
Alane — alone 
Amna — am  not 
Ance — once 
Aneath — beneath 
Anent — concerning,  about 
Aneuch — enough 


Ankil — ankle 

Argling — wrangling 

Ashet — an  oblong  dish 

Asks — lizards 

Ass-hole — ash-pit,  or  dust-hole 

A'thegither — altogether 

Athort — athwart 

Atower — away  from 

Atween — between 

Auchteen — eighteen 

Aughts — owns 

Auld— old 

Auld-woman — a  revolving  iron 

chimney-top 

Aumry — cupboard  in  a  corner 
Ava — at  all 
Awee — a  little  while 
Awin — owing 
Awmous — alms 
Ax — ask 
Ayont — beyond 


B 


Back-o'-beyont  (back-of-be- 
yond) — a  Scotch  slang  phrase 
signifying  any  place  indefi 
nitely  remote 

Backend — close  of  the  year 

Baggy-mennon  — a  minnow, 
thick  in  the  belly 

Baikie — a  bucket  for  ashes 


Baird—  beard 


Bairnly  —  childish 
Baith—  both 
B  ak  i  ef  u's  —  bucketf  uls 
Ballant—  ballad 
Bane  —  bone 


Glossary  of  Scotch  Words. 


563 


Banieness  —  largeness        and 

strength  of  bone 
Bap—a    small  flat  loaf    with 

pointed  ends 
Bardy  —  positive 
Barkened  —  hardened 
Bashed  —  somewhat    flattened 

with  heavy  strokes  or  blows 
Bat  —  bit 
Bate  —  beat 
Bauchle  —  an  old  shoe  crushed 

down  into  a  sort  of  slipper 
Bauk  —  one  of  a  set  of  planks 

or  spars  across  the  joists  in 

rude  old  Scotch  cottages 
Bauld—  bold 
Bawdrons  —  a  cat 
Bawm  —  balm 
Bawn  —  band 
Bawns  —  banns 
Beek  —  to     grow    warm     and 

ruddy  before  the  fire;  (beek 

in  the  hearth  heat) 
Beetin  —  fanning  and  feeding  a 

fire  with  fuel 
Beggonets  —  bayonets 


Belyve  —  soon 

Ben  —  into  the  room 

Beuk  —  book 

Bick—  bitch 

Bield—  shelter 

Big  —  to  build 

Bike  —  swarm 

Bikes  —  nests  of  bees 

Biled—  boiled 

Bill—  bull 

Binna  —  be  not 

Birk  (tree)  —  birch 

Birks  —  birches 

Birks  —  beggar-my-neighbor,  a 

game  at  cards 
Birr  —  force 
Birses  —  bristles  ;      metaphori 

cally  used    in    Scotland   for 

angry  pride 


Birzed  —  bruised 
Blab  —  a  big  drop 
Black-a-viced  —  of    dark    com 

plexion 

Blash,  (a)  —  a  drench 
Blashin  —  driven  by  the   wind 

and  drenching 
Blate—  bashful 
Blaw  —  blow 


Blethers  —  rapid     nonsensical 

talk 

Blin'—  blind 
Blouterin  —  gabbling     noisily 

and  foolishly 
Blouts  —  large    deep    blots    or 

stains  scarcely  dried 
Elude—  blood 
Bocht  —  bought 
Bock  —  vomit 
Bodle  —  a  small  Scottish  coin, 

not  now  used 
Bogle  —  a  goblin 
Bole  —  the  cup  or  bowl  of  a  pipe 
Bonny  —  handsome,  beautiful 
Bonny  fide  —  bona  fide 
Bonspeil  —  a  match  at  curling 
Boo  —  bow 
Bools  —  marbles 
Boord  —  board 
Boud  —  were  bound 
Bouet  —  a  hand-lanthom 
Bo  uk—  bulk 
Bourtree  —  elder-tree 
Bo  wster  —  bolster 
Boyne  —  a  washing-tub 
Brace-piece  —  mantel-piece 
Brackens  —  )   ( 
Brakens-l  fern 
Braes  —  slopes  somewhat  steep 
Braid  —  broad 
Brak  —  broke 
Branglin  —  a  sort  of  superlative 

of  wrangling 
Brassle  —  panting  haste  up  a 

hiil 


504 


Appendix. 


Brastlin  —  hasting    up    a    hill 

toilsomely,  and  with  heavy 

panting 
Braw  —  fine 

Breckans  —  see  Brackens 
Breeks  —  trousers 
Breid  —  bread 
Breist  —  breast 
Brent  —  rising   broad,  smooth, 

and  open 
Brewst  —  a  brewing  ;  used    in 

the  text  as  the  making  of  a 

jug  or  bowl  of  toddy 
Bricht  —  bright 


Brock  —  badger 

Brodd  —  board 

Broo  —  brow 

Broo'd  —  brewed 

Broon  —  brown 

Broose  —  a  race   at  a  country 

wedding 
Browst  —  see  Brewst 


Brughs  —  burghs 
Bubbly-jock  —  turkey-cock 
Buckies  —  a  kind  of  sea-shell 
B  ught  —  sheepfold 
Buird  —  a  board  ;  used  in  the 

text  as  the  low  table  011  which 

a  tailor  sits 

Buirdly  —  tall,  large,  and  stout 
Buirds  —  boards 
Bum  —  buzz 

Bumbee  —  the  bumble-bee 
Bummer  —  blue-bottle  fly 


Bunker  —  window-seat 

Burd-  board 

Burnie  —  rivulet 

Busked  —  dressed  showily 

But  —  into  an  outer  or  inferior 

apartment 
By-gaun  (in  the  by-gaun)  —  in 

going  past 
Byre  —  cowhouse 
Byuckie  —  small  book 


Ca'-call 


Caff—  chaff 

Gallant  —  young  lad 

Caller  —  fresh 

Came  —  comb 

Camstrary  —  unmanageable 

Canny  (no  canny).  —  Canny 
means  gentle,  but  "no  canny" 
is  a  phrase  in  Scotland  for 
one  with  a  spice  of  the  power 
of  a  wizard  or  devil  in  him 

Cantrip  —  magical  spell 

Canty  —  lively 

Carvey  —  the  smallest  kind  of 
sweetmeats,  generally  put  on 
bread-and-butter  for  chil 
dren 


Caucht — caught 

Caudie — see  Cadie 

Cauff — chaff 

Cauked — tipped     with     rough 

points,    as    horse-shoes    are 

prepared  for  slippery   roads 

in  frost 

Cauldit — troubled  with  a  cold 
Cauldrife — easily  affected   by 

cold  ;  in  the  text  it  is  used 

as  selfishly  cold 
Cauler — fresh 
Caulker — a  glass  of  pure  spirits, 

a  dram 

Causey — causeway 
Caves — tosses 
Cavie — a  hencoop 
Gavin — tossing 
Cawrn — calm 


Glossary  of  Scotch  Words. 


565 


Cawnle — candle 
Chack — a    squeeze    with  the 
teeth 

Chaclat — chocolate 

Chafts — jaws 

Chap — knock 

Chapped — struck,  as  a  clock 
strikes 

Chapping — knocking 

Chap  o'  the  knock — striking  of 
the  clock 

Chaumer — chamber 

Cheep— to  complain  in  a  small 
peevish  voice 

Cheyre — chair 

Chiel — a  fellow,  a  person 

Chirt — to  press  hard  with  occa 
sional  jerks,  as  in  the  act  of 
turning  a  key  in  a  stiff  lock 

Chitterin — shivering,  with  the 
teeth  chattering  at  the  same 
time 

Chop — shop 

Chevies — an  cho  vies 

Chovvin — chewing 

Chowks — jaws 

Chow't — chew  it 

Chrissen'd — christened,  bap 
tized 

Chuckies — hens 

Chucky-stane — a  small  smooth 
round  stone,  a  pebble 

Chum  ley — ch  i  mney 

Clachan — a  small  village 

Clackins  — broods  of  young 
birds 

Claes — clothes 

Clapped  (clapped  een)  —  set 
eyes 

Clarts — mud 

Clash — a  noisy  collision 

Claught — to  clutch 

Clautin — groping 

Cleckin — brood 

Cleedin — clothi  ng 

Cleek — a    hold    of    anything, 


caught  with  a  hooked  instru 
ment 

Cleemat — climate 

Cleugh — a  very  narrow  glen 

Clink — cash 

Clishmaclaver — idle  talk 

Clockin — bent  on  hatching 

Cloits — falls  heavily 

Clootie — the  devil 

Cloots — feet  [towns 

Glosses  —  narrow      lanes      in 

Clour — a  lump  raised  by  a  blow 

Clout — a  bit  of  linen  or  other 
cloth 

Clud— cloud 

Cockettin — coquetting 

Cockit — cocked 

Cock-laird — yeoman 

Cocko-nit — cocoa-nut 

Codlin — a  small  cod 

Coft — bought 

Coggly — shaky  from  not  stand 
ing  fair 

Collie — shepherd's  dog 

Collyshangie — squabble 

Connate — conceit 

Conceit — ingenious  device 

Coo — cow 

Cooart — coward 

Coof — a  stupid  silly  fellow 

Cookies — soft  round  cakes  of 

fancy  bread  for  tea 
Coom — to  blacken  with  soot 
Coorse — coarse 
Coots — ankles 
Copiawtor — plagiarist 
Corbies — carrion  crows 
Corn-stooks — shocks  of  corn 
Cosh — neat 

Cosy snug 

Cotch — coach 
Cottie — small  cottage 
Coup — upset 

Coupin-stane — cope-stone 
Couthie — frank.and  kind 
Covin — cutting 


566 


Appendix. 


Cozy — snug 

Crabbit — crabbed 

Crack — a  quiet  conversation 
between  two 

Craig — neck 

Cranreuch — hoar-frost 

Crap-sick — sick  at  the  stomach 

Crappit — cropped,  made  to 
bear  crops 

Craw — a  crow  of  triumph 

Creddle — cradle 

Creel — a  fish  basket 

Creenklin — chuckling,  with  a 
small  tinkling  tone  of  tri 
umph  in  it 

Creepie — a  small  low  stool 

Creesh — grease 

Cretur — creature 

Crinkly — hoarsely  crepitating 

Croodin  doos — cooing  doves 

Croon — crown 

Crouse — brisk  and  confident 

Crowdy — a  gruel  of  oatmeal 
and  cold  water 


Cruckit — crooked 

Cruds — curds,  thickened  milk 

Crunkled — a   wrinkled  rough- 

ness 

Crummle — crumble 
Cuddie — donkey,  an  ass 
Cuduie-heels — iron  boot  or  shoe 

heels 
Cuff  (cuff  o'  the  neck) — nape 

of  the  neck 
Cummers — female  gossips.  In 

the  text    the    word  simply 

means  elderly  wives 
C  untra — country 
C  urtshy — curtsy 
Custock — stalk  of  colewort  or 

cabbage 
Cute — ankle 

Cutty — a  frolicsome  little  lass 
Cutty-mun — a  slang  phrase  for 

a  poor  fellow's  dance  in  air 

when  he  is  hanged 
Cyuck — cook 


Dab — peck,  like  a  bird 

Dadds — thumps 

Dae — do 

Daifin — frolicking 

Daft — crazy 

Daidlin — trifling 

Daigh — dough 

Darnbrod — Draught-board 

Dang — beat 

Daud — lump 

Daudin — thumping 

Daunderin — sauntering 

Dauner — saunter 

Daur — dare 

Da  win — the  breaking  of    the 

dawn 

Day-lily — asphodel 
Day's-darg — day's  labor 


Dazed — bewildered  from  in 
toxication  or  derangement 

Dead-thraws — agonies  of  death 

Deavin — deafening 

Dee — die 

Deealec — dialect 

Deid — dead 

Delvin — digging 

Dew-blobs — big  drops  of  dew 

Dew-flaughts — vapors  of  dew 

Dight — wipe 

Din — dun 

Dinna- — do  not 

Dirl — a  tremulous  shock 

Disna — does  not 

Div — do 

Dixies — a  hearty  scolding  by 
way  of  reproof 


Glossary  of  Scotch  Words. 


567 


Dizzen — dozen 
Docken — dock 
Doit — a  small  copper  coin 
Doited — stupid 
Dolp — bottom  or  breech 
Donsy — a  stupid  lubberly  fel 
low 

Doo — pigeon 
Dook — bathe 

Door-cheek — side  of  the  door 
Douce — grave  and  quiet 
Douk — bathe 
Doundraucht — down-drag 
Doup — bottom  or  breech 
Dour — slow  and  stiff 
Douss — a  blow,  a  stroke 
Dowy — doleful 
Dracht — draught 
Drappie — little  drop 
Draucht — draught 
Dree — to  suffer 
Dreein — suffering 

BE-}** 


Dreigh  —  tedious 
Droich  —  dwarf 
Drookin  —  drenching 
Drookit  —  drenched 
Droosy  —  drowsy 
Drucken  —  drunken 
Drumly  —  turbid,  muddy 
Drummock  —  meal  mixed  with 

cold  water 
Dub  —  puddle 
Dung  —  knocked 
Dunge  —  see  Dunsh 
Dumbie  —  a  dumb  person 
Dunsh  —  a  knock,  a  jog  or  quick 

shove  with  the  elbow 
Dun  shin  —  bumping 
Durstna  —  durst  not 


Dwam    o'    drink  —  a  drunken 

stupor 

Dwinin  —  pining 
Dyuck  —  duck 


E 


Ear — early 

Earock — a  chicken 

Eatems — items 

Ee — eye 

Ee  -brees — ey  ebro  ws 

Eein — eyeing 

Een — eyes 

Eerie — inspiring  or  inspired 
with  nameless  fear  in  a  soli 
tary  place 


Eerisome — fear-inspiring  in  a 

lonely  place 
Eerocks — see  Earock 
Eident — diligent 
Eiry — full  of  wonder  and  fear 
Eisters — oysters 
Ettle — intend  and  aim  at 
Evendown — undisguised    and 

clear 
Exhowsted — exhausted 


Fack — fact 

Failosophers — philosophers 
Fan'— felt 
Fankled — entangled 
Farder — farther 


Far-keekers — far-lookers 
Farrer — farther 
Fash — trouble 
Fashou  s — troublesome 
Fates — feats 


568 


Appendix. 


Fause-face — mask 

Faut — fault 

Fawsettoes — falsettoes 

Faynomenon — phenomenon 

Fearsome — terri  ble 

Fechtin — fighting 

Feck — number  or  quantity. 
"  The  grand  feck,"  means 
the  greater  proportion,  or 
most 

Feckless — feeble 

Feenal— final 

Feesants — pheasants 

Fend  — shift 

Fennin — faring 

Fent — faint 

Fer]y  (to) — to  look  amazed  and 
half  unconscious 

Fernytickled — freckled 

Feturs — features 

Fictions — fictitious 

Fidginfain — restless  from  ex 
cess  of  eagerness  and  delight 

Fin's — feels 

Finzeans — smoked  haddocks 

Firm — form,  bench 

Fisslin — rustling  almost  inau- 
dibly 

Fit— foot 

Fit-ba — football 

Fivver — fever 

Fizz — make  an  effervescing- 
sound 

Fizzionamy — physiognomy 

Flaff— instant 

Flaffs — strong  windy  puffs 

Flaffered — blown  about  with 
strong  puffs  of  wind 

Flaffin — fluttering  in  the  air 

Flaucht — a  momentary  out 
burst  of  flame  and  smoke 

Fleech — beseech  with  fair 
words 

Flees — flies 

Flesher — butcher 

Flett--ilat  (in  music) 

Flichter— flutter 


Flinders — shivers 

Fliped — turned  back  or  up,  or 

inside  out 
Flipes — conies  peeling  off   in 

shreds 

Floory — flowery 
Fluff — a  quick  short  flutter 
Flyte — rail 
Flyped — see  Fliped 
Foggies — garrison  soldiers  ;  old 

fellows    past  their    best,  or 

worn  out 
Fool — fowl 
Forbye — besides 
Forfeuchen — fatigued 
Forgather  wi' — fall  in  with 
Forrit — forward 
Foulzie — see  Fuilzie 
Foumart — polecat 
Fowre — four 
Fowre- hours — tea,   taken    by 

Scotch    rustics    about    four 

o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
Fozie — soft    as   a  frost-bitten 

turnip 
Frae — from 
Fraucht — freight 
Freen — friend 
Frush— brittle 
Frutus — fruits 
Fu' — tipsy 
Fud — breech  ;  seldom  used  ex 

cept  in  reference  to  a  hare 

or  rabbit 
Fugy — flee  off  in  a  cowardly 

manner 
Fuilzie— filth  ;  filth  of  streets 

and  sewers 
Fuirds — fords 
Fules — fools,  fowls 
Fulzie — see  Fuilzie 
Fulzie-man — a  night-man 
Fummlin — fumbling 
Funk — a  kick 
Furm — form 

Fushionless — without  sap 
Fut — foot 


Glossary  of  Scotch  Words. 


569 


Gab — mouth 

Gaberlunzies — mendicants 

Gad — the  gadfly 

Gaily — rather 

Gain' — against 

Gallemaufry — idle  hubbub 

Gang— go 

Gar — make 

Garse — grass 

Gash — solemnly     and     ;ilmost 

supernaturally  sagacious 
Gate — manner 
Gaunt — yawn 
Gaucy — portly 
Gawmut — gamut 
Gawpus — fool 
Gear — goods,  riches 
Geeing — giving 
Gegg — to   impose    upon   one's 

credulity   with     some   piece 

of  humbug 
Geggery— humbug    to    impose 

upon  the  credulous 
Gerse — grass 
Gey-       } 
Gey  an —  >•  rather 
Geyly—  ) 
Ggeg — a  piece  of  humbug  to 

impose  upon  the  credulous 
Ggem — game 
Ghaistly — ghostly 
Gie — give 
Gied — given 
Gif— if 
Gillies — serving-lads      in     the 

train  of  a   Highland  chief 
tain 

Gimmer — a  two-year-old  ewe 
Gin— if 
Ginnlin — catching  trouts  with 

the  hand 
Girn — grin 
Girnel — a  large  meal-chest 


Girrzies — coarse  servant-girls 
Gizzy — a  sort  of  compound  of 

giddy  and  dizzy 
Glaft' — momentary  wide  flutter 

and  flash 
Glaur — mud 
Gled — the  glead  or  kite 
Glee'd — squinting 
Gleg — quick  and  sharp 
Gleg-eed — sharp-eyed 
Glint — a  quick  gleam 
Gloamin — twilight  of  evening 
Glower — stare  with  wide  won 
dering  eyes 
Glumrnier — gloomier 
Glutter — a  gurgling  pressure  of 

•words  and  saliva   when   the 

mouth     cannot     utter     fast 

enough 
Cellaring — uttering  with  loud 

confused  vehemence 
Goo — provocative  to  food 
Gouk — fool 
Gowan — daisy 
Gowden — golden 
Gowk — fool 
Gowmeril — fool 
Gowpen, — what  the  two  hands 

put  together  can  hold 
Grain — to  groan 
Grains — branches 
Graned — groaned 
Grape — a  dung-fork 
Grat — wept 
Gratins — gratings 
Grawds — grades 
Gree — prize 
Greening — longing  for  a  thing, 

as  a  pregnant  woman  is  said 

to  long 
Greet — weep 
Grew — greyhound 
Grewin — coursing  the  hare,  &^. 


570 


Appendix. 


Grieves-  farm  stewards  or  over 

seers 
Groof  —  belly 


Grousy  —  inclined  to  shiver  with 

cold 

Gruin  —  disposed  to  shiver 
Gruesome  —  causing     shudder 

ing  with  loathing 
Grufe  —    >  ,    n 
Gruff-    |belly 
Grumph  —  to  grunt  like  a  sow 
Grumphie  —  pig 
Grun'  —  ground 
Grunstane  —  grindstone 
Grup  —  gripe,  hold 
Guddlin  —  catching  trouts  with 

the  hand 


Gude — good 

Guffaw — a  broad  laugh 

Guller— a  gurgling  sound  in 
the  throat  when  it  is  com 
pressed  or  half -choked  with 
water 

Gullerals — angry  gurgling 
noises  from  the  mouth 

Gull-grupper — one  catching 
gulls 

Gully — large  pocket-knife 

Gurlin — rolling  roughly,  hud 
dled  together 

Gushets — fancy  pieces  worked 
with  wide  open  stitches  in 
the  ankles  of  stockings 

Gutsy — gluttonous 

Guttlin — guzzling,  eating  glut 
tonously 


H 


Ha'—  hall 
Hadden  —  holding 
Haddies  —  haddocks 


Hafflins—  half 

Hags  —  breaks  in  mossy  ground, 
remnants  of  breastworks  of 
peat  left  among  the  dug  pits 

Hagglin  —  cutting  coarsely 

Hail,  (a)  —  abundance 

Haill  —  whole 

Hailsome  —  wholesome 

Hain  —  husband 

Hainches  —  haunches 

Hairst  —  harvest 

Hairt  —  heart 

Hale  —  whole 

Haliest  —  holiest 

Hantle  —  number,  handful 

Hap  —  hop 

Hap-step-and-loup  —  hop  -  step- 
and-leap 

Haps  —  wraps 

Harl  —  drag 


Hargarbargilng — wrangling, 
bandying   words    backward 
and  forward 

Harn-pan — brain-pan,  skull 

Harns — brains 

Hash — a  noisy  blockhead 

Haud —   )  ,    I-. 

Hauld-[-nold 

Haun — hand 

Haur — a  thick  cold  fog 

Havers — jargon 

Haverer — proser 

Haveril — a  chattering  half-wit 
ted  person 

Hawn — hand 

Hawnle — handle 

Hawrem — harem 

Hawse — throat 

Heads  arid  thraws — heads  and 
feet  lying  together  at  both 
ends  of  a  bed 

Heech — high 

Hee-fleers — h  igh-flyers 

Heelan — Highland 

Heich— high 


Glossary  of  Scotch  Words. 


571 


Held— head 

Heidlands — headlands 

Heigh — high 

Herried — robbed  or  rifled, 
generally  in  reference  to 
birds'  nests 

Herrier — a  robber  of  birds' 
nests 

Het— hot  ^ 

Hicht — height 

Hing't — hang  it 

Hinny — honey 

Hirple — to  walk  very  lamely 

Hirsel — flock 

Hizzie — hussy,  a  young  woman, 
married  or  unmarried,  gen 
erally  applied  to  one  of  a 
free  open  carriage 

Hoast — to  cough 

Hogg — a  year-old  sheep 

Hoggit — hogshead 

Hoise — raise 

Hoodie-craws — hooded  crows 

Hoolet — owlet 

Hooly — leisurely 

Horrals— small  wheels  on  which 
tables  or  chairs  move 

Horrel'd  —  wheeled,  having 
wheels 


Hotch — to  heave  up  and  down 
Hot-chin — heaving  up  and  down 
Hottle— hotel 
Houghs — the   hollows  of    the 

legs    behind,    between     the 

calves  and  the  thighs 
Houghmagandy — fornication 
Houkit — dug 
Houlats — owls 
Houp — hope 
Howdie — midwife 
Howe — hollow 
Howes — holes 
Howf — haunt 
Howk — to  dig 
Howp — hope 

How-towdies — barn-door  fowls 
Huggers — stockings      without 

feet 

Hunder — hundred 
Hurcheon — urchin,  hedgehog 
Hurdles — hips 
Hurl  (a) — a  ride  in  any  vehicle, 

but  with  usual  reference  to  a 

cart 
Huts,  tuts  ! — an     exclamation 

of  contemptuous    doubt    or 

unbelief 
Hyuckit — hooked 


Idiwit  —  idiot 
lies  —  oils 
Iley  —  oily 


Ill-faured  —  ill-favoured 


Ingan — onion 

Ingine — genius,  ingenuity 

Ingle — fireside,  hearth 

Interteenin — entertaining 

Intil — into 

Isna — is  not 


Jalouse — suspect 
Jawp — splash 
Jee  (a) — a  turn 
Jeely — Jelly 


Jeest — >  .  4 
Jeisfc_pest 
Jigot— gigot 
Jimp-waisted — slender- waisted 


572  Appendix. 

Jinkin — turning  suddenly  when  Jookery-pawkery —  \  juggling 
pursued  Joukery-pawkery —  )     trickery 

Jirt — to  send   out   with  quick  Jookin — coming  suddenly  forth 
short  emphasis  in  a  sly  and  somewhat  stoop- 

Jockteleg — a  folding-knife  ing  manner 

Jougs — an  iron  collar  fastened  Jouked — dodged 

to  the  wall  of  a  church,  and  Joukit —  dodged,    to    avoid    a 
put  round  a  culprit's  neck,  in       thrust  or  blow 
the   old    ecclesiastical   disci-  Jugging — jogging 
pline  of  Scotland 

K 

Kame — comb  Kirns — feasts  of  harvest  home, 

Keckle — cackle  with  a  dance 

Kecklin — cackling  Kitchen — relish 

Keek — peep  Kittle — difficult 

Keekit — peeped  Kittly — easily  tickled,  sensitive 

Keeklivine  pen — chalk  pencil  Kittled — literally  littered,  as  of 

Kembe — comb  kittens 

Ken — know  Kitty-wren — wren 

Kennin't — knowing  it  Kiver — cover 

Kemia — do  not  know  Kivey — covey 

Kenspeckle — noticeable  Knappin — breaking  with  quick 

Kent — known  short  blows 

Ker-hauned — left-handed  Knowe — knoll 

Kerse — carse,  alluvial  lands  ly-  Kye — cows 

ing  along  a  river  Kyeanne — cayenne 

Kibbock — a  cheese  Kyloe — an  ox,  generally  used  in 

Kimmers — gossips  reference    to    the    Highland 

Kipper — fish  dried  in  the  sun,  breed 

usually  applied  to  salmon  Kythes — shows  itself 

Kyuck — cook 

L. 

Lab — strike  erally  applied  to  words  long 

Laigh — low  and  learned  (verba  sesquipe- 

Lair — learning  dolia)  with  contempt  for  him 

Laith — loth  that  uses  them 

Laithsome.  loathsome  Lap — leaped 

Lameter — cripple  Lauchin — laughing 

Lane — lone,  alone  Launin—  landing 

Lanes  (twa) — two  selves  Law  (as  applied  to  a  height) — 

Lang — long  an     isolated  hill,    generally 
Lang-nebbed — long-nosed  ;  gen-        more  or  less  conical  in  form 


Glossary  of  Scotch  Words. 


573 


Lave — remainder 

Laverock — lark 

Leddies — ladies 

Leear — liar 

Leeoures — liqueurs 

Leeds — leads 

Lee-larig — live-long 

Leemits — limits 

Leeves — lives 

Len — loan 

Leuch — laughed 

Licht — light 

Licks — chastisement 

Lift — firmament 

Lilt — to  sing  merrily 

Limmers — worthless  characters, 

usually  applied  to  women 
Links — downs 
Linns — small  cascades,  together 

with    the    rocks   over   which 

they  fall 
Lintie — linnet 
Lint  wh  ite — lin  net 
Lister  —  a    pronged    spear    for 

striking  fish 


Lith — joint 

Loan — a  green  open  place  near 

a  farm  or  village,  where  the 

cows  are  often  milked 
Lo'esome — lovable 
Loo — to  love 
Loof — palm  of  the  hand 
Loot — stoop 
Losh — a  Scotch  exclamation  of 

wonder 
Lounderin — striking  heavily  in 

a  fight 
Loup — leap 

Lout — lower  the  head,  stoop 
Low — flame 
Lowin — flaming 
Lown — calm 
Lowse — loose 
Lozen — window  pane 
Luck —  \  ,     , 
Luk-    flook 
Lug — ear 
Lu  m — chimney 
Lyart — grey,  hoary 


M 


Mailin — a  small  property 

Make — match,  or  mate 

Mankey — a  kind  of  coarse  cloth 
for  female  wear 

Manteens — maintains 

Mantel — chimney-piece 

Marrow — match,  equal 

Mart — an  ox  killed  at  Martin 
mas  and  salted  for  winter  pro 
vision 

Mauks — maggots 

Maukin — hare 

Maun — must 

Mawt — malt 

Measter — master 

Meer — mare 

Meerage — mirage 

Meikle — much 


Meltith — a  meal  of  meat 

Mennon — minnow 

Mense — to  grace,  to  enable  to 
make  a  good  show 

Mere — mare 

Messan — a  mongrel  cur 

Mettaseekozies-metempsychosis 

Michtna — might  not 

Midden — dunghill 

Mint  (to)— to  hint  or  aim  at 

Mirk — dark 

Mizzles — measles 

Monyplies — part  of  the  intes 
tines  with  many  convolutions 

Mool — mule 

Mortcloth —  the  black  cloth 
thrown  over  the  coffin  at  & 
funeral 


574 


Appendix. 


Moold — mould 

Mootin — moulting 

Mooldy — mouldy. 

Mou — mouth 

Moul — mould,  earth,  soil 

Mouls — small  crumbling  clods 

Moudiwarp,  —  Moudiewart 

mole 
Muck  the  byre — clean  out  the 

cow-house 


Muckle — much 

Mudged — made   the  slightest 

movement 
Munted — mounted 
Mummle — mumble 
Muruins — mourning-dress 
Mutch — a  woman's  cap 
Mutchkin — a      Scotch    liquid 

measure  nearly  equivalent  to 

the  imperial  pint 


N 


Nae — no 

Naig— nag 

Nain — own 

Nate — neat 

Nawsal — nasal 

Neb — nose 

Neep — turnip 

Neerdoweel — one    who   never 

does  well, incorrigibly  foolish 

or  wicked. 
Neist — next 
Neuk — nook 

New  harled — new  plastered 
Nicher — neigh 
Niddlety-noddlety  —  nodding 

the  head  pleasantly 


Nieve— fist 

Nocht — nought,  nothing 

Noo — now 

Koos  and  thans — now  and  then 

Noony — luncheon 

Notts — notes 

Nowte — neat  cattle 

Nowtical — nautical 

Numm — benumbed 

Nummers — numbers 

Nuzzlin —  Nuzzlin,  pressing 
with  the  nose,  as  a  child 
against  its  mother's  breast 

Nyaffing — small  yelping 

Nyuck — nook 


o 


Obs — observation 

Ocht — ought 

Ochi>— aught,  anything 

Odd— ode 

Oe — grandson 

Ony  ae — any  one 

Ool — owl 


Out-by — without,  in  the  open 

air 

Outower — out  over 
Ower — over 

Ower-by — over  the  way 
O  wertap — overtop 
Owther — author 
Oxter — arm-pit 


Pabble— to  boil,  to  make  the 
sound  and  motion  of  boiling 


Paddocks — frog» 
Paiks — a  drubbing 


Glossary  of  Scotch  Words. 


PaidJlin — wading  sauntering- 
ly  for  amusement  in  the  wa 
ter 

Pai  rein— piercing 

Pai  ro  do  wgs — paradox 

Paitrick — partridge 

Parritch — oatmeal  porridge 

Parshel — parcel 

Partens — crabs 

Pastigeos — pasticcios 

Pat — put 

Patr  i  ck — partri  dge 

Patron — pattern 

Pawkie — shrewd 

Paum — palm 

Pease-weep — lapwing 

Pech — pant 

Pechs — pigmies 

Peel— pill 

Peepin — peeping 

Peerie — peg- top 

Peerie-weerie — insignificant 

Peeryette — pirouette 

Peeryin — purling 

Pellock — a  porpoise 

Pensie — pensive 

Penter — painter 

Pemicketty — precise  in  trifles, 
finical 

Pickle — small  quantity 

Pingle — difficulty,  trouble 

Pint — point 

Pirn — reel  for  a  fishing-line 

Pirrat — pirate 

Pit— to  put 

Pitten — put 

Pleuch — plough 

Plookin — plucking 

Ploom— plumb,  £100,000 

Ploomd  amass — prune 

Plouter — to  work  or  play  idly 
and  leisurely  in  water  or  any 
other  soft  matter 

Plowp — the  sound  of  anything 
small  but  heavy  dropping  in 
to  water  or  other  soft  matter 


Ploy — a  social  meeting  for 
amusement 

Pluff — a  small  puff  as  of  ig 
nited  powder 

Plum — a  perpendicular  fall 

Pockey-ort — marked  with  the 
small-pox 

Poleish — police 

Pomes — poems 

Pooked — plucked 

Poor — power 

Poorfu' — powerful 

Poorti  th — poverty 

Poossie — pussy  ;  applied  to   a 

Pootry — poultry  [hare 

Pose — hoard  of  money 

Potty — putty 

Poupit — pulpit 

Pouther — powder 

Poutry — poultry 

Pow — poll  or  head 

Po  wh  eads — tadpoles 

Powldowdies — oysters 

Powper — pauper 

Poy — pie 

Pree — try,  taste 

Pree'd— -tried,  tasted 

Preein — tasting 

Preevat — private 

Prent — print 

Prick-ma-denty — finical,  ridic 
ulously  exact 

Priggin — entreating,  haggling 
with  a  view  to  cheapen 

Prin — pin 

Propine — gift ;  properly  gift  in 
promise  or  reserve 

Pruve— prove 

Pu'— pull 

Puckit — meagre  and  mean 
looking;  better  spelt  "pook- 
it." 

Puir — poor 

Pushion — poison 

Puddock-stools — fungi 

Pyet — magpie 


576 


Appendix. 
Q 


Quaich — a  drinking-cup  with  Quate — quiet 

two     handles,  generally    of  Quey  (a) — a  young  cow 

wood  O.uulli< 

Quat — did  quit 

K 


v^tAV>jr     l«*/ cw  j  V^LA**^   w  T 

Quullies — small  quills 


Raggoo — ragout 
Rampawgeous  —  outrageously 

violent 
Rampauging   —    raging    and 

storming 
Ram-stain — headlong,  onward 

without  calculation 
Randie — scolding  woman 
Rang — reigned 
Rape — rope 
Rashes — rushes 
Rasps — raspberries 
Rattan — rat 
Rax—reach 
Ream — cream 
Rebate — receipt,  recipe 
Red-kuted — red-ankled 
Hed-wud  mad — raging  mad 
Reek — smoke 
Reest — to  be  restive 
Reesty — restive 
Reseedin — residing 
Rickle — a  loose  heap 
Rickley — loosely  built  up  and 

easily  knocked  down 
Riff-raff ery — of  the  rabble 

and  disreputable 
Rig — ridge  of  land 
Riggin — roof  and  ridge 
Ripe — poke 
Ripin — poking 
Rippet — disturbance 
Riving — tearing 


-D.  )  haddocks 

Rizzers —  i  j  •  j  • 

RiZZer'd  baddies-  J^n" 

Roan — spout 

Rockins — evening  neighborly 
meetings  for  a  general  spin 
ning  with  the  distaff 

Rooket,  rooked — "  cleaned  out" 
at  play 

Roop — rump 

Roosed — extolled 

Roots — routs 

Rose-kamed — rose-combed 

Rotten — rat 

Ro  uch — r  o  ugh 

Roun' — round 

Roup — rump 

Rouse — extol 

Routin — roaring 

Rows — rolls 

Rowled — rolled 

Row  ted — roared 

Rubber — robber 

Rubbit — robbed 

Rubiawtors  — devouring  mon 
sters 

Rucks — ricks 

Ruff  —  applause    by  beating 
with  the  feet 

Rug — tear 

Rung — a  cudgel 

Runkled — crumpled 

Rype — see  Ripe 


Sabbin — sobbing 
Saft— soft 


Saip — soap 
Sair — serve 


Glossary  of  Scotch  Words. 


577 


Sair — sore 

Sants — saints 

Sark — shirt 

Sass — sauce 

Sassenach — a  Lowlander  or 
Englishman 

Saugh  wand — willow  wand 

Saun — sand 

Saunt — saint 

Saut — salt 

Sawmont — salmon 

Scald — scold 

Scale — spill 

Scart — scratch 

Sceeance — science 

Schule — school 

Sclate— slate 

Sclutter — a  bubbling  outburst 
or  rush  of  liquid 

Scones — soft  cakes  of  bread, 
generally  unleavened 

Scoonrel — scoundrel 

Scoor — scour 

Scraugh — a  screech  or  shriek 

Screed — tear,  a  revel 

Scribe — scrab  or  wild  apples 

Scroof — nape 

Scrow — crew 

Scunner — to  shudder  with 
loathing 

Scutter — a  thin  scattered  dis 
charge 

Seek — sect 

Seelent — silent 

Seenonims — synonyms 

Seepit — soaked 

Seggs— sedges 

Seik — sick 

Sel— self 

Selt— sold 

Sereawtim — seriatim 

Sey — assay,  prove 

Shachlin — shuffling 

Shank's  naigie — on  foot 

Sh  ankers  —  ale-glasses     with 

1     long  stalks 


Shaw — show 

Shauchly — ill  made  about  the 

limbs  and  feet,  and  walking 

with  a  sort  of  shuffle 
Shave — slice 
Shawps — husks 
Shells— cells 
Shielin — a  shepherd's  slender, 

temporary  cot 
Shilfa — chaffinch 
Shinna — shall  not 
Shissors — scissors 
Shogglv — shaky 
Shoobhmest — sublimes! 
Shool — shovel,  spade 
Shoon — shoes 
Shoor — shower 

Shouther — shoulder  [withered 
Shranky — slender,    lean,    and 
Shucken — shaken 
Shue — sew 
Shusey — Susan 
Sib — akin 

Siccan — such  kind  of 
Sich — a  sigh 
Si  dike — such  as,  similar 
Sile — soil 

Siller — silver,  money 
Similes — sinews 
Sin 'syne—  ago 
Siver — a  covered  drain 
Skaith — harm 
Skarted — scratched 
Skeel— skill 
Skeely— skilful 
Skein-dhu — a  Highland  dagger 
Skelp — a  slap,   a  sharp  blow 

(properly  with  the  palm  of 

the  hand) 

Skently — scantily,  barely 
Skep — hive 
Skeugh — a  slight  shelter  ;  more 

correctly  spelt  Scug 
Skirl — a  shrill  cry 
Skirrin — flying 
Skites — skates 


578  Appendix. 


Skreigh  —  (skreigh-o-day)  —  Soup  —  sup 

break  of  day  Sourocks  —  sorrel 

Skreeds  —  long  pieces  Sowens  —  see  Sooens 

Skrow  —  number,  swarm  Spale-box  —  a  small  box  made  oi 

Skuddy  —  naked  chips    of    wood,    mainly  for 

Skunner—  shudder  with  disgust      holding  pills  or  salves 
Slaters  —  small  insects  of  the  Spang  —  leap 

beetle    species  Sparables  —  small  iron  nails  in 

Sleuth  hound  —  blood-hound  soles  and  heels  of  shoes,  &c. 

Sickener  —  allayer  of  thirst         Spat  —  spot 
Sluddery  —  slippery  Spate  —  stream  in  flood 

Sma  —  small  Spawl  —  shoulder 

Smeddum  —  spirit  Speaned  —  weaned 

Smeeks  —  stifles  with  smoke        Speat  —  stream  in  flood 
Smiddy  —  smithy  Speel  —  climb 

Smoored  —  smothered  Speer  —  ask 

Siiaffin  —  the  shortest,  smallest  Speerally  —  spirally 

petulant  bark  of  the  smallest  Speldrins  —  haddocks  salted  and 

dog  dried 

Sneevlin  —  speaking      with     a  Spinnle-shankit  —  thin-limbed 

strong  nasal  twang  through  Spleet  —  split 

the  mucus  of  the  nose  Spootin  —  spouting 

Snokin  —  smelling  like  a  dog       Spring-bred  —  spring-board 
Snood  —  head-band     worn    by  Spunk  —  a  wooden  match  tipped 

maidens  only  with  brimstone 

Snooking  —  sucking  down    by  Spunked  out  —  came  to  light 

the  nostrils  Spunkie  —  spirited 

S  nooled  —  cowed  Squozen  —  squeezed 

Snoot  —  snout  Stab  —  stake 

Snooved  —  went  smoothly  and  Stacherin  —  staggering 

constantly  Staigs  —  stags 

Snoving  —  going  smoothly  and    Stake  —  steak 

constantly  Stamack  —  stomach 

Soddy  —  soda  water  Stane  —  stone 

Sonsy  —  well-conditioned  Stap  —  stop 

Soo  —  sow  Starnies  —  stars 

Soocker  —  sucker  Staun  —  stand 

Sooens  —  a   sort   of    flummery  Stawed  —  satiated 

made  of  the  dust  of  oatmeal  Steaks  —  stakes 
Sook  —  suck  Steek  —  shut 

Soom  —  swim  Steepin  —  stipend 

Soop  —  SUp  Stell  —  a  still,  a  shelter  for  sheep 

Sooper  —  supper  or  cattle 

Sooterkin  —  abortion  Sternies  —  stars 


Glossary  of  Scotch  Words. 


579 


Stey — steep 

Sticket  minister — one  who  gives 
up  the  clerical  profession  in 
Scotland  from  not  being  able 
to  get  ordination  and  a  living 

Stirks — young  cattle  in  the  first 
year  of  their  age 

Stock — fore  part  of  a  bed 

Stoiter — stagger 

Stocks — shocks  of  corn 

Stool — the  bottom  of  any  crop  ; 
generally  thick  and  close  crops 
are  said  to  "  stool  out  "  when 
they  thicken  at  bottom 

Stooned — pained 

Stoop  and  roop — completely 

Stoopit — stupid 

Stot — to  rebound 

Stotted — rebounded 

Stoun — a  thrilling  beat,  a  quick 
painful  ache 

IStouning — aching 

Stour — fiying  dust,  or  dust  in 
motion 

Stown — stolen 

Stownways — stealthily     • 

Stracht — straight 

Strack — struck 

Strae — straw 

Stramash — uproar,  tumult 

Strang — strong 

Strauchened — straightened 

Stravaig — idle,  aimless  wander 
ing 


Strecht — straight 

Streck — strike 

Streckin — stretching 

Streekit — stretched 

S  troop — spout 

Strussle— fight 

Stullion — stallion 

Sturt — trouble 

Sud — should 

Sugh  (keep  a  calm  sugh) — be 
quiet.  Sugh  itself  means  the 
solemn  murmur  of  wind  in  the 
trees  or  through  a  narrow 
passage 

Suit — suite 

Sumph — a  blockhead 

Sune — soon 

Swallin — swelling 

S  wap — exchange 

Swarf — a  swoon 

Swattle — fill  gluttonously  or 
drunkenly 

Sweein — swinging 

Sweered — unwilling 

Sweeties — small  sweetmeats 

Swither — hesitate 

Swoopit — swept 

Swurl — whirl 

Swutches — switches 

Sybo — a  young  onion  with  ita 
green  tail 

Symar — cymar,  scarf 

Syne  (sin'synej — ago 


Tae— one  of  two 
Taes — toes 
Taeds—  )  .     A 
Taids-[toad3 
Taigle — linger 
Tain  (the — the  one 
Tangle — a  kind  of  sea- weed 
Tantrums — a  fit  of  sulky  whim, 
whimsical  sullens 


Tap  —  top 

Tapsalteerie  —  heels-over-head 

Tapsetowry  —  in    excited     and 

raised  confusion 
Taukin  —  talking 


Tawpy  —  thoughtless  and  coarse 
Tawry  —  tarry 


580 


Appendix. 


Tawse  —  the  implements  of  flag- 
.     ellation  in  Scottish  schools 
Tawty  —  matted 
Teegar  —  tiger 
Teep  —  type 
Tent  —  care 


Thairm  —  fiddle-strings 

Thees—  thighs 

Theekin  —  tliatching 

Theekit  —  thatched 

Theirsel  —  theirselves 

Thir—  these 

Thocht  —  thought 

Thole  —  endure 

Thoom  —  thumb 

Thrang  —  busy 

Thrapple  —  windpipe 

Thrapplin  —  choking     by     com 

pressing  the  throat 
Thrawart     and    uiicanuie  —  [»er- 

verse  and  dangerous 
Thrawin  —  throwin 
Threed—  thread 
Threecolore  —  tricolor 
Threeped  —  asserted 
Threeple  —  triple 
Threteen  —  thirteen 
Thretty—  thirty 
Thrissle—  thistle 
Throughither  —  mixed     all      to 

gether 

Thursty  —  thirsty 
Thud  —  a  thump,  and  the  noise 

it  makes 

Thu  m  m  1  ef  u  '  s  —  thi  mblef  uls 
Ticht—  tight 
Tiler—  tailor 
Till—  to 
TilPt—  to  it 
Timmer  —  timber 
Timmer-tuned  —  altogether     un 

musical  in  the  voice 
Tining  —  losing 
Tinsy  —  tinsel 


Tint— lost 

Tirlin — unroofing 

T'ither— the  other 

Tocher — dowry 

Toddle— to  totter  like  a  child  in 

walking 

Toddler — a  tottering  child 
Toman — a  knoll,  a  thicket 
Tooels — towels 
Toom — empty 
Toon — town 
Toosy —    ) 

Toosey —  >-  shaggy,   rough,   dis- 
Toozy—   )      he  veiled 
Toozlin — handling  the  lasses  in 

rough  sport 

Tooth* — blowing  a  horn 
Tosh  up — display  to  best  advan 

tage 

Toshly — neatly 
Tot — the  whole  number 
Touts — sounds 
Touzle — deal  roughly  with 
Towdie — a  barn-door  fowl 
Towmont — twelvemonth 
Towsy  —  flaggy,     dishevelled, 

rough 

Tramper — wandering  beggar 
Trance — passage 
T rai i  s mogr if y — to  metamorphose 

strangely 
Trate — treat 
Tredd — trade 
Trig — neat 
Trochs — troughs 
Trotters — legs  and  feet 
True— trow,  believe 

Trummel —  )    ,        i  * 
rr  ,        y  tremble 

1  rummle —  \ 

Trumlin — trembling 
Twa-haun — two-handed 
Twa-three — two  or  three 
Twal — twelve 
Twalt— twelfth 
Tyke — dog,  cur 
Tyuk— took 


Glossary  of  Scotch  Words. 

U 


581 


Unce — ounce 
Unco — uncommon 
Unwiselike — unlike  the  truth, 
ridiculous 


Upcast — taunt,  reproach 
Uptak — apprehension,  compre 
hension 
Urchin — the  shell  so  called 


Vacance — vacation 

Vice — voice 

Vicey — small  thin  voice 


Vivers — victuals 
Vizy — a  deliberate 
particular  object 


look  at  a 


W 


Wa'— wall 

Wab— web 

Wabsters — weavers 

Wad — would 

Waefu' — sorrowful 

Waff — wave 

Waght — weight 

Wale — best 

Walin — choosing 

Wallise — valise 

W  ame — stomach 

Wamefu— bellyful 

Wamle — a    sudden     tumbling 

roll,  generally  on  the  belly 
Wan — one 
Warna — were  not 
Warsle — wrestle 
Was  na't — was  it  not 
Water-pyat — the  water-ouzel 
Wather — weather 
Wattin — wetting 
Waught  (a) — a  large  draught 
Waukrife — watchful,  sleepless 
Waur — worse 
Weans— children 
Weather-gleam — a    gleam    of 

light  in  the  track  of  the  sun 

on  the  edge  of  the  horizon, 

in  cloudy  weather 
Wecht — weigh  t 
Wede — weeded 


Wee— little 

Wees— (by  littles  and  wees), 

by  insensible  degrees 
Weel-f  aured — weel-  favored 
WTeel-kend — well-known 
Weezen'd— dried,  hide-bound, 

withered,  shrunk,  and  yellow 
Werena — were  not 
Wersh — insipid 
Wershness — insipidity 
Whafflin — raising  a  wind  with 

violent  waving 
Whalps — whelps 
Whammle — upset 
Whang — a  large  slice  or  cut 
Whap — a  heavy  slap 
Whase — whose 
What— whet 
Whattin— whetting 
Whaups — curlews 
Wheen — a  number 
Wheesht— ) 
Wheish—   \-  hush 
Whisht—    ) 
WThilk— which 
Whilly-wha — a  shuffler 
Whins — furze 

Whumle — to  turn  up  or  round 
Whup — whip 
Whupt — whipt 
Whurlint — whirling 


582 


Appendix. 


Whuskin — whisking 

Wh  usky — whisky 

Wh  usper — whisper 

Whussle —  )      ,  .  ., 

Whustle-j  whlsfcle 

Whut— whit 

Whyleock— little  while 

Wi'  hit— with  it 

Wice — wise 

Wimplin — curling  and  pur 
ling 

Win — get 

Windle-strae — a  tall,  dun,  sap 
less  grass  that  grows  on 
Scottish  hills 

Windle  -  strae  -  legged  —  with 
small,  puny  legs 

Wise— entice 

Wiselike — judicious 

Wizen — throat 

Wizened — see  Weezened 

Wons — dwells 

Wonner — wonder 

Wonnin — d  welling 

Woo — wool 

Wordier — worthier 


Wrastle  —  wrestla 

Wud  —  angry 

W  udcock  —  woodcocfc 

W  udc  ut  —  woo  dc  ut 

Wudds  —  woods 

Wudna  —  would  not 

Wudn  ess  —  distraction 

Wull-cat—  wild  cat 

Wullie-waucht  —  large  draught 

Wull't—  will  it 

Wummle  —  wimble 


-  }  ^ 

Wundin  —  winding 
Wunk—  wink 
Wunna  —  will  not 
Wunnel-strae  —  see     Windle- 

strae 

Wunnock  —  window 
Wurset  —  worsted 
Wus  —  swish 
Wut—  Wit 
Wutty—  witty 
Wuzzard  —  wizard 
Wysslike  —  judiciously 
Wyte  —  blame,  fault 


Yammer — murmur  or  whimper 
peevishly 

Yatt— yacht 

Yaud — a  sorry  old  horse 

Yawp — sharp  set 

Yearock — chicken 

Yellow  yoldrin — yellow  ham 
mer 

Yepoch — epoch 

Yerk-yerking — carp-carping 

¥erth— eartf 


Yestreen — yester  even 

Yett— gate 

Yill— ale 

Yirth— earth 

Yoke  till  him — set  upon  him 

Yonner — yonder 

Yott — yacht 

Youf-youfin — yelp-yelping 


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